Passing Through
by Cima1305
Summary: AU. In love with her adoptive brother, the warlord Byakuya Kuchiki, Rukia seeks his approval by sneaking into the enemy's camp and trying to learn the secret behind Ichigo Kurosaki's tremendous power. R/I, R/B
1. Chapter 1

Hi everyone! This is my first non-crossover Bleach fic, and I hope you'll like it!

Disclaimer: I don't own Bleach or any Bleach characters. This fanfiction is for entertainment purposes only and no profit is being made.

Warnings: This fic will contain violence, gore, bad language, sex, a relationship that's abusive on both sides, and other mature themes. The main pairings are Rukia/Ichigo and Rukia/Byakuya.

….

Chapter 1:

The first time someone died in her arms, Rukia Kuchiki was nine years old.

In the dead of night, the enemy had set fire to her brother's encampment. The tents were ablaze and people were running and screaming.

The air was hot and dry. The smoke stung Rukia's eyes, but she forced herself not to cry. She wanted to be brave.

The Warlord, Byakuya Kuchiki, was nowhere to be found. Hisana, her sister, was nowhere to be found. Her nurse had fled. Her tent, with the perfumed linens and wooden toys, had gone up in flames.

The enemies were among them, bellowing and baying like dogs. Their horses shrieked as they rode through the camp, and they slashed with swords that glinted a dull red.

The Soldier, one of her brother's, was lying wounded on the ground. Rukia could tell that it was a girl who had dressed up as a boy, though the sandy hair was cropped short and the armor hid any feminine curves. Women were forbidden to fight in her brother's army, so the Soldier must have disguised herself and snuck her way in. A runaway, probably.

"My sword… my sword," rasped the Soldier. She coughed up a mouthful of blood that trickled down her cheek in a dark stream. She was groping for a sword that wasn't there anymore.

Rukia, terrified though she was, knelt down next to the Soldier and tried to cradle the lolling head in her lap. The Soldier had a gushing stomach wound that was staining the ground red. Rukia knew she should put pressure on the wound, but was too scared to touch it.

The Soldier was dying and Rukia was terrified.

"M-mother, mother," wept the dying Soldier.

"Soldier, don't die!" cried Rukia. She jumped when the Soldier reached up and grabbed her arm in a trembling hand.

"My name is Kuh… Kiyone Kotetsu. P-please tell my mother that I…I-"

The Soldier stopped moving. The bloodied mouth slowly closed, the unfinished words swallowed back into a dying throat.

"Oh, no."

Rukia was frozen. She stared and stared into those blank, lifeless eyes, and thought that the entire world was burning down around her. At that moment, she saw nothing but dust, blood, and Kiyone Kotetsu.

She whispered the name, tasting it on her tongue, the name of the girl who had impersonated a boy. The girl who died in her arms.

Her sister calling her broke her out of the trance.

"Rukia! Rukia!" came Hisana's voice, shrill and frantic over the roaring fires.

The little girl turned her head and saw her sister. Hisana had a cut above her left eyebrow, and her robe was torn, but she was safe. One of their personal guards was with Hisana, holding her frail body upright with an arm around her shoulder.

It was Hisana who had insisted on them riding out with Byakuya, so she could be closer to her husband while he made war. Rukia could see the guilt in her sister's eyes, painful and clear.

"I'm here!" shouted Rukia, as loud as she could. She stood and dropped Kiyone Kotetsu's body to the dusty ground.

And though she tried so hard not to cry, because brave children didn't cry, Rukia ran straight into the arms of her sister-mother and sobbed.

"Oh, Rukia!" sighed Hisana, voice heavy with relief. Rukia clutched at Hisana as if her life depended on it. She cried and cried until she was nearly sick, and Hisana held her close, whispering words of comfort.

"We will be safe. Byakuya has gone to rally the men. We will be safe! They'll come to help us."

Then, their own men were riding out, the horses' hoof beats thundering against the ground. Their swords flashed and they bellowed just as loudly as their enemies. Like a raging river, they crashed into their opponents, driving those _damned _barbarians back.

Among them rode Lord Byakuya himself, his famous sword held high, like a beacon in the dark.

_Yes! Yes! Kill them all!_ Rukia thought, even as she trembled in Hisana's arms.

When it was over, when their enemies either ran or lay groaning on the ground, Byakuya dropped his elaborate war helm into the dust and came for them.

"Are you hurt?" he asked simply. He towered over both sisters and to nine-year-old Rukia, Brother was the tallest and most beautiful man in the world.

"No, my husband," Hisana replied in her soft voice. "We are safe. You have kept us safe." She shook her head slightly so that her bangs hid the cut on her forehead.

"Good," sighed Byakuya. Without another word, he stepped forward and gathered both of them up into a tight embrace. Rukia felt crushed, and her brother's armor was digging into her skin. But as she buried her face in his chest and took strands of his hair into her small hands, she was comforted at last.

X

Rukia Kuchiki was older now, and braver.

Kiyone Kotetsu was long dead. Hisana was long dead.

In the end, Byakuya had been unable to keep his wife safe from the disease. Rukia missed her sister terribly.

She had been very young when Hisana married into the Kuchiki family, and couldn't recall much of their life from before.

Rukia remembered that she and Hisana had no parents, and that they were poor. She remembered the paper fans that her sister sold on the streets. Their home had a dirty floor and the stink of the gutter.

She remembered bowls of bland noodles and the rare taste of cheap candy. She remembered soft kisses on the cheek, and how the other children were dirty and half-naked as they played in the streets.

Then, there was that ugly memory of the man that came to their house. Hisana had shooed her out, but Rukia peeked in through the window and saw her sister lift her skirts for the man. That night, they had money for noodles and eggs and even candy, and Rukia had been too young to make the connection.

Everything had changed when her sister married the ruler's heir, Byakuya Kuchiki. Hisana had become Lady Hisana, and they had left their dirty little home to live in Byakuya's manor. For the first time, Rukia had toys. They had meat and candy and nice clothes.

Rukia had quickly fattened into a healthy size, but Hisana remained thin until the day she died.

When Byakuya later replaced his father as the Warlord, he became Lord Byakuya in public but remained Brother in private. He was home less and less, and Hisana longed for him whenever he was gone.

She and Rukia used to ride out with Byakuya and camped where he camped. But after that night, with the fire and the screams and the clash of swords, Byakuya forbade Hisana to ride with him again. So, she had pined and sat up entire nights, longing for him.

Rukia was older now, and far, far braver. The war had been going on for as long as she could remember, but it no longer frightened her. Other people might whisper that the new ruler of their enemies was the most powerful and terrifying man in the world, but Rukia wasn't frightened. Even as her brother's side suffered loss after loss, she remained brave, trusting her brother's strength.

The war between their two lands had lasted for generations, and each new generation was fighting for the honor of the previous one. If anyone asked Rukia why the fighting was still going on, she would say aloud that it was because her brother was fighting an honorable war and that it was only right that he should fight until he won. He _deserved _to win. But, in her heart, she knew that that it was because the war had been going on forever, and that's just the way it was. It was as much a part of her as her blood.

To surrender was unthinkable. Indeed, each side had made it impossible for the other to surrender, with threats of violence, execution, and complete domination.

The common people suffered because of it, but the war was a part of their blood too, and they had as much pride as anyone else. So, the war raged on and they suffered, gnashed their teeth, and cheered in the streets whenever news came of a victory.

There had been a too-brief period of peace when Isshin Kurosaki became the ruler of the Northern provinces. He had proposed a treaty, and Byakuya had agreed. But the uneasy truce died when Isshin did, and now they were back at war.

Isshin's son and heir, Ichigo Kurosaki, was the new ruler of the North. They said that he was young, but was an extraordinary warrior. His sword was even more famous than Byakuya's, and it was said to possess some power that only Ichigo knew how to unleash. This secret power made him almost unstoppable on the battlefield.

Rukia had only seen it once, when she rode to the front lines with her brother. Surrounded by her brother's guards, cocooned in her armor, she was forced to only watch from the sidelines as the men battled. She saw it with her own eyes as the orange-haired warlord raised his sword up high and swung it down.

It was as if an invisible force was released when he swung that blade. Though it seemed that Ichigo's sword barely touched them, his nearest enemies recoiled and fell down dead.

It didn't matter how skilled the warriors were, or how powerful the weapons they wielded. Ichigo Kurosaki had carved her brother's men down like they were nothing but livestock, ready for slaughter. Even Byakuya couldn't stand against him, and had to call a retreat.

With her own eyes, Rukia had witnessed the power of Ichigo Kurosaki's sword, and she had to convince herself that she didn't feel the bite of terror. But unlike everyone else, she didn't quite fear the man _himself_. She had watched him fight, and knew that it was a human's face beneath that helm.

He covered himself in armor and had his trusted men riding behind him, surrounding his blind spots. He was like anyone else who was afraid of being hurt, hence the precautions. He wielded a massive, powerful weapon, but he _could_ be hurt, could be killed.

After that battle, Byakuya had come to her and demanded that she return home. She had stamped her foot and refused, and Byakuya had disapproved of her rudeness.

"Hisana may not be here to watch over you anymore, but that doesn't mean you can do whatever you like," he said, quiet in his anger. "Go home, Rukia. I have been lenient with you so far, but the battlefield is no place for a noblewoman. Or any woman."

Rukia gritted her teeth. She thought of poor, ailing Hisana, who had insisted on riding to the frontlines with her husband, even though her hands were pale and shaking when she held the reins. She thought of Kiyone Kotetsu, who had cut her hair and dressed in boys' clothes, who had, even in the last minutes of her life, struggled to lift her sword and fight.

"This isn't up for discussion," he said. "You're going home tomorrow." He turned and left her without another word.

Rukia sighed. War hadn't made Brother an unhappy man, but Hisana's death had.

Though truthfully, her brother had always indulged her as best as he could. He never liked that she preferred sword fighting, riding, and archery to dancing and tea ceremonies. But he still hired swordsmen, horse handlers, and archers to be her instructors. He still had a set of armor made for her, and a sword as well.

She knew he only enforced his rules if he felt like he had no other choice.

X

"Rukia, what are you doing?" called Renji, startling her so that she jumped.

He had caught her sneaking around in the stables. The fact that it was the middle of the night made her look even more suspicious.

"What's it look like I'm doing?" she huffed, hefting the saddle up so she could buckle it to her horse. "I'm running away."

Renji laughed.

"It's not a joke!" Rukia snapped. "I'm serious about this, you idiot."

"Hah, sure you are. Sneaking out for some fun, eh? If you're going drinking, don't mind if I come with you."

He was her brother's lieutenant and her close friend, but he was utterly infuriating sometimes.

"This isn't supposed to be fun! I'm running away tonight because Brother's having me sent back home tomorrow."

Somewhat taken aback at her tone, Renji lifted his lantern up so he could look into her face. He was a bit surprised to see her bundled up in a man's clothes. Her black hair, usually left loose to fall down to her waist, was tied in a bun and wrapped in a scarf. Her sword was at her side.

"And just where are you planning to run away to?"

Rukia lowered her eyes and turned away from him. She patted the neck of her horse so that it stopped fidgeting.

"You know where I'm going. I've told you about it before, remember?"

"What? You aren't serious, are you? I thought you were joking at the time."

"I'm plenty serious."

"But sneaking into the enemy's camp? Impersonating a soldier? Infiltrating their headquarters and leaking information to-"

"Shh! Don't talk so loud, idiot! I'm trying _sneak _out, if you haven't noticed."

"You can't, Rukia! It's way too dangerous." 

"I know, I know. I wish I had more time to plan this out, but he's making me go home in the morning! This is the only chance I'll have."

She grabbed a fistful of her cloak, frustrated.

"You know what they say, Renji," she whispered. "They say that Kurosaki's sword is the strongest weapon in the world and that as long as he wields it, he can't be beaten. But you know what I think? All objects were made and can be unmade. Nothing under Heaven is infallible, and that includes that blasted barbarian and his sword.

"I don't care much for battle strategies and military secrets. I haven't the interest or the talent for those things. But I want to know what power is behind Kurosaki's Zangetsu. If it can be replicated, I will steal that secret. If it can be broken, I will break it. And if it can be stolen, then I will steal it from him with my own hands."

"You're crazy, Rukia. Crazy and suicidal. I'll summon the guards and have them take you away."

"Traitor! You know that Brother will keep me under lock and key if you do."

"Better you be locked up than killed."

"Summon the guards and I'll never forgive you!"

They glared at each other, fists clenched tightly, ready to fight. Renji gnashed his teeth, hating that she was so stubborn, so naïve.

"Listen to reason, stupid girl. Even if you do manage to get there and sneak your way into their army, what if you were caught while playing spy? You'll never come home again. They'll have you tortured until you tell _them _about _our _secrets. They'll have your head on a spike! You don't even know what it's like to be in the military. Have you ever fought for your life before? Ever killed anyone?"

"No, but I've watched them die, and I've watched for far too long. I need to do something, even if Brother won't let me. Don't lecture me, Renji. My mind is made up."

He sighed. "You never listen to me. I'm supposed to be your betrothed, but you never listen to me."

"Hah! Half of Byakuya's court have been betrothed to me at one time or another and I'm still only seventeen. Before you, it was Commander Ukitake and before him, it was that brat they call a prodigy. Maybe tomorrow, it'll be someone else again."

Angered, he walked up close to her so that they were almost touching. He shone the lantern into her face so he could see the brightness of her eyes.

"But you don't want any of them, do you?" he challenged. "Byakuya could offer you the best man in the world and you wouldn't be happy, because you love _him._ _He's_ the only one you want to marry. In fact, that's why you're doing this, right? So you can bring back something valuable for him and maybe he'll love you for it?"

Rukia stiffened, but didn't back down. She stared back at Renji, unflinching. It was true, of course. As soon as she had been old enough to love and lust at the same time, Rukia had fallen for her Warlord brother. The brother who was still heartbroken over Hisana's death.

"So what?" she shot back. "I've already made my decision. Questioning my motives won't get me to change my mind."

She took the horse's reins and pushed past him. She led the animal towards the stable door, but paused at the threshold.

"Goodbye, Renji," she said softly. Her voice tugged at his heartstrings and he knew he couldn't let her go, just like that. She was a fool, and she would soon be a dead fool if she wasn't careful. He couldn't stand it if she died.

"Wait," he called, and was relieved when she turned around. He stooped down and took a small handful of dirt and dust.

He walked over to her and took her hands, dirtying them.

"You need some dirt under your nails," he said. "Your hands are too dainty and clean for a soldier boy. Here, your face too."

He smudged her cheek with his thumb, and rearranged her scarf so that it wasn't so neat. He even tugged a few strands of her hair loose, so she looked a bit messier, less of a noblewoman.

"Thanks,' she said, blushing a bit.

"You _will _be careful, won't you?"

"Of course I will. I know what's at stake."

"Don't reveal your kido no matter what, or they'll know exactly who you are."

She knew that well enough. Knowledge of kido spells was a Kuchiki family skill, and the spells were only taught within the family, passed down from generation to generation. Strictly speaking, Rukia shouldn't have been taught this skill, as she was not born into the family. But Byakuya relented after she had begged him, much like he had relented to the sword fighting lessons and the armor.

"I won't," she replied. "Don't worry so much. I can take care of myself, promise. I'll be gone and back in no time."

How utterly innocent.

"Oh, and… one more thing," he said, and hesitated for a while, as if he wasn't sure whether to tell her or not. "If you ever get into trouble over there, big trouble that you can't get out of, the codeword is 'Suzumebachi.' Remember it."

She raised an eyebrow, confused. "Codeword? What for? What're you talking about?"

"Never mind! Just… you'll understand if you ever need it." He groaned and rubbed the back of his neck. "Great. If Lord Byakuya ever finds out that I leaked confidential military information to you, he'd have me hanged."

"Well, I guess I won't tell him, then," she replied, and smiled up at him. "Thanks. You're a good friend, Renji Abarai."

Despite the dirt on her face, she looked pretty in the dim light. Her smile was so endearing. He thought of her falling into enemy hands and his heart ached.

Impulsively, he leaned down to kiss her, but she pushed him back.

"Stop that. I'm going, now."

X

The Warlord of the Northern provinces, Ichigo Kurosaki, had his own set of rooms at the center of his encampment. He had his own furniture set up there, his own rugs, his own wall hangings. He had servants to keep his living quarters in shape, and his own chef, though he often dined with the rest of his men anyway.

He was sitting up late that night, with some of his most loyal warriors keeping him company. They lounged in chairs, drinking wine and listening to music.

There were three girls, dancing abreast to the pipe music. They wore thin clothes and their jewelry chimed merrily as they spun. The one in the middle had large eyes and pretty hair. Some of the drunker men were leering, faces flushed.

"Mr. Strategist," Ichigo called, and a man to his left quickly stood and approached the throne-like seat. The Warlord looked bored as he toyed with his wine cup. "Is everything going according to plan?" 

"Yes, sir," replied the man. "All the preparations have been made for our next attack. The men are ready."

"Good." Ichigo slammed his cup down onto the table with a thump. "We'll push them further and further until there's nowhere left for them to run. I won't stop until Byakuya Kuchiki and his pitiful allies surrender to me on bended knee."

"Very good, sir," said the man, and bowed.

"You may go, Mr. Strategist. Oh, Commander Kyoraku?"

"Hmm?" said a man to Ichigo's right. He was lazy from the drink and didn't bother to get up, only turning his head to look at the young man.

"Who is the woman dancing in the middle?"

"I believe her name is Orihime Inoue," drawled Kyoraku. "She's the daughter of a tattoo artist, and has been traveling with us for quite some time now. Nice face, eh? Interested?"

"Quite. Tell her… no, _ask _her if she would like to come to my bedroom after she finishes the last dance."

Kyoraku chuckled and pulled his straw hat over his eyes.

Ichigo left them then, escaping from the cloying music and the warm air. He made his way to his private bedchamber and threw open the windows once he got there.

The breeze was cool against his flushed skin. He looked out at the land before him and felt such a desire for it that it burned him from within.

The moonlight was bright, and illuminated a painting that hung on the wall. Ichigo walked towards the pretty picture, hand outstretched as if to touch.

It was a painting of a young woman. Her slender body was wrapped in a violet, flower-patterned kimono. She held a flower in a slim, white hand. Her hair was long and black, reaching down to her waist. Her neck was long and white, her lips were painted pink, and her eyes were soft and pretty. She was a tall, thin, beautiful young woman.

"Rukia Kuchiki," Ichigo whispered, his fingertips skimming the painted lady's face.

He had only met her once, many years ago. She was Isshin's price for that short-lived peace treaty, a bride for his son. In return, Ichigo had been offered up in the same way to Byakuya, a groom for his adopted sister. The both of them had been betrothed before they had reached their teens.

He remembered seeing the child, Rukia. He was little more than a child himself at the time, but he remembered that she was lovely and sweet. Rukia had held tightly to Lady Hisana's hand, and stared at Ichigo with wide, curious eyes. She was wearing a little purple kimono with a flower print.

"Greet your future wife, Ichigo, my boy!" his father had chuckled, and slapped his back so hard he nearly stumbled.

"H-hello," Ichigo had muttered, and Rukia pulled two fingers from her mouth and smiled at him.

"Oh, 'ello," she had replied. Her smile had a hole in it, as some of her baby teeth had fallen out.

Byakuya had watched the entire exchange with an icy stare, while Hisana had looked sad.

"Rukia Kuchiki," Ichigo repeated. He stared at the painting, as he was used to doing whenever his mind was buzzing with thoughts. She had been promised to him, all those years ago, and he didn't like broken promises. "When I win this war, I will take you home with me."

Did she even remember him? After all these years, did she even resemble the painting that now hung from his wall?

"Your Highness," came a soft, sweet voice from outside his door. He turned and saw the dancing girl, standing with her head bowed and her hands folded demurely in front of her.

"Oh, it's you. Come on in, Miss Inoue."

X

Notes: Thank you all so much for reading! Please, please review and let me know what you think!


	2. Chapter 2

Disclaimer: I don't own Bleach or any Bleach characters. This fanfiction is for entertainment purposes only and no profit is being made.

Warnings: This fic will contain violence, gore, bad language, sex, a relationship that's abusive on both sides, and other mature themes. The main pairings are Rukia/Ichigo and Rukia/Byakuya.

….

Chapter 2:

Jushiro Ukitake fought the urge to sigh in frustration. Gin Ichimaru was viciously teasing Toshiro again, making the boy's eyes bulge with anger.

They were in the middle of a war council, with Byakuya, his generals, and advisors all gathered in one room. The sun hadn't quite risen yet, and more than one of them were yawning into their hands.

Toshiro Hitsugaya, whom they called a child prodigy, was offering up a possible battle strategy. He was too young to become an official military officer, but he was brilliant and surprisingly well read for a farmer's son. Early on in his life, he had been taken into Byakuya Kuchiki's service, much to his own pleasure and the displeasure of his family, who had lost a son and a farmhand.

However, no matter how talented Toshiro was, he was still just a boy, one who hadn't yet learned to develop the temperance that came with age. He was easily baited and quick to anger, something that Gin Ichimaru exploited with relish.

"As I was saying, before I was rudely interrupted," Toshiro said, "if Kurosaki manages to push us back further south, we must evacuate the 53rd district and send at least two battalions to make a stand there. The rocky terrain would be ideal for one of the formations suggested by Commander Ukitake-"

"I'm sorry, but which district was it that you said?" drawled Ichimaru, an exaggeratedly puzzled expression on his face.

"The 53rd," Toshiro replied through gritted teeth.

Ichimaru turned quizzically towards the hanging map, one so large that it spanned an entire wall and reached from floor to ceiling.

"You mean here?" he said. He pointed a thin finger at a spot on the map, above Toshiro's head. "But that's a terrible place to use the Commander's formations! Surely, you know that marshy land is-"

"It's a terrible place because you're pointing at the 25th!"

"Oh my, my. I suppose I am. Forgive me, Mr. Strategist, I'm not as familiar as you are with the more remote areas. Would you please do the honor of pointing me, then?"

Ichimaru's lips curved upwards into a sickeningly sweet smile, while Toshiro flushed.

"It's that area right there," said the boy, pointing upwards.

"Where?"

"Right there!"

Toshiro was straining upwards as much as possible without losing his dignity by rising to his toes or hopping up and down. His dilemma was obvious, as the 53rd was actually at the very top of the map, and Ichimaru seemed to be enjoying the situation immensely.

"I'm sorry, where? My dear boy, you're not making much sense."

"It's up there, you half-wit!" Unfortunately, even with the wooden pointer, Toshiro couldn't quite reach.

"Insulting your elders? Now that's a bit naughty, isn't it, 'Shiro? It isn't _my _fault that you don't seem to know your way around a map."

"You're the one insulting _me_!" Toshiro ground out. He was clutching the wooden pointer so tightly it creaked and threatened to break.

Jushiro fought back another sigh. The boy got worked up too easily, and Ichimaru was a scoundrel for taking advantage of that. Still, _this_ was nothing. The smirking man had words like barbed arrows, sinking in and tearing flesh whenever he saw a weakness. _This _was just a light teasing, though it infuriated Toshiro well enough. The boy had yet to see the man's true viciousness, the bared teeth that could strip away any enemy's defenses and bring them down to nothing.

Thank goodness there wasn't a man like Gin Ichimaru working for the other side.

One of the other officers in the room stepped up to the map then, and jabbed the 53rd district with a loud _thwack_.

"The 53rd is right _here, _Ichimaru, as you well know. Stop antagonizing the boy. Stop wasting our time."

"Oh my, is _that _it?" said Ichimaru, putting on a act of innocent confusion. "Well, why didn't you say so, Toshiro? You could've just pointed it out to me and then we wouldn't have had to resort to harsh words. Ohhhhh, I see. You couldn't reach it, could you? Oh, how silly of me. I should have thought to offer you a footstool!"

"Keep your footstool!" snarled Toshiro. "In fact, why don't you just leave, if you have nothing better to do than make fun of me?"

"Gentleman, please," said Jushiro, raising his hand to stop their bickering. "We're all friends here-"

"He is _NOT _my friend!" Toshiro shouted.

"Yes, but we are all his Highness' advisors, and-"

"Well, I wish he wasn't," Toshiro said. He was nearly spitting with anger. "In fact, anyone else in the world would make a better advisor than Ichimaru. A beggar off the streets would make a better advisor! He's nothing but a low, two-faced-!"

Ichimaru interrupted this tirade with a lilting laugh. "My, my, 'Shiro. You look like you're angry enough to bite my ankles."

This roused several guilty chuckles around the room, and even Jushiro had to hold back the urge to laugh.

Ichimaru, more the scoundrel, had described Toshiro devastatingly well. At that moment, the child looked very much like an undersized dog, nipping helplessly at someone larger.

The thought occurred to Jushiro that this boy had once been engaged to Rukia Kuchiki, a deal offered to him by Byakuya Kuchiki to cement the youth's future in his employment. The betrothal was quickly broken off when it turned out that Toshiro Hitsugaya, unsurprisingly, had no interest in marriage and wouldn't for many years.

It was a bad match, Jushiro thought, whether anyone intended to go through with it or not. More specifically, _he _was no match for _her_, this prickly little boy whose eyes flashed with emotion far too often. Paired with Rukia Kuchiki, who exuded passion and ferocity in a glance, he would have either died of love for her or died of fury.

Out loud, Jushiro said harshly, "That's enough talk from you, Gin. And calm yourself, Mr. Strategist. We are not here to fight amongst ourselves."

"Indeed, Commander," said Ichimaru, facing Jushiro with that maddening smile. "_You _are not here to fight at all."

There was a gasp among those assembled.

It was a known fact that Jushiro's sickness had pushed him into an early retirement from combat. It was also a known fact that the Commander hated to be reminded of this weakness.

The people in the room, even Toshiro, looked on uneasily as Jushiro's eyes narrowed. He gave Ichimaru a cold, hard stare, one that told the younger man that Jushiro Ukitake wasn't so easily cowed or baited.

"Haha," said Ichimaru, putting his hands up in mock defeat. "I meant no disrespect, sir. You must forgive a poor, unfortunate joker like me for not knowing better."

"Forgiven," Jushiro said shortly. "Now, to the matter that was being discussed…"

He trailed off when Byakuya stood and headed for the door without a word.

"Lord Kuchiki? Where are you going?"

"I'm done here," said the Warlord, without turning around.

"But we haven't even finished discussing the 53rd! Lord Kuchiki, the reports say that we might be expecting an attack any day now and we need to work out a proper strategy!"

"I've heard enough. This meeting is over." Byakuya slid open the door and left.

There were a few indignant mutters among the generals as his white robe flicked out of sight. For a noble to turn his back on his subordinates, and leave without even formally dismissing them by name was a breach of protocol. Jushiro, however, was more concerned that there was work left to be done.

"Wait, Byakuya!" he called, and followed him out. He trailed Byakuya all the way to his private study and barged in, unannounced.

The Lord Kuchiki was standing at the window, looking outwards with one hand braced on the sill.

"What was the meaning of that?" demanded Jushiro, abandoning formality. "Come back. There are many more things we need to discuss."

Then, he heard Byakuya make a sound, a very low groan. Jushiro was all too familiar with it, and noticed that Byakuya was slightly shaking. His other hand was clutching his shoulder. Despite the front he put on, Byakuya Kuchiki was about to collapse.

The Commander instantly softened. "Is it the old war wound?"

The Warlord sighed and turned to face him. "I'm sorry, Willow. I'm afraid it is."

"I'll send for the physician immediately." 

"No. No must know of this besides us. The pain will pass by itself."

"You must not push yourself too hard," Jushiro admonished, coming up to stand beside Byakuya. "If you died, then us Southerners would have no leader."

"I will not die yet," said Byakuya, fighting back the strain in his voice. Slowly, he eased the pressure from his shoulder. Underneath the heavy silk, Jushiro knew that there was a ragged black scar, the result of Kurosaki's "unstoppable" sword.

"On the day I got this," said Byakuya, "that boy slashed the air at a hundred paces. His blade never even touched me, but I was cut. It's been years now, and I still feel it, as painful as the day I was cut. How can it be that I still feel it?"

"I don't know."

He groaned again and Jushiro grabbed his arm, leading him to sit on the sofa.

"Damn this war," said Jushiro, troubled. "It seems that after all these years, all we've managed to accomplish is to outdo each other in cruelty, again and again. They raid our villages, we attack their supply routes. They take hostages and torture them, we take more and execute them without trial. They set our camps on fire, we send our spies to sabotage their ships, so that their sailors die screaming, trapped in a watery grave. They poison our water supply, we set rabid dogs among them, infesting them with disease."

"And now they have devised a new cruelty, a sword that cuts at a hundred paces," Byakuya finished for him. "We'll just have find something crueler that can stop it. Kido works, but only to a certain extent."

Jushiro moved to sit across from Byakuya, so he could look into the younger man's eyes. "A new weapon won't stop the war. Maybe it's time you listened to me about a peace treaty."

"No, Ukitake," said Byakuya, his voice harsh. "I've already told you my opinions on that."

"But think of the people! Surely you can see that-"

"I said, no. Maybe ten years ago would have been the time for peace, but now, that time is long past. Ichigo Kurosaki does not love peace. There is no point."

Jushiro sighed heavily. "So there's no persuading you?"

Lord Kuchiki didn't reply, but closed his eyes. They sat in silence for the next minute, Byakuya wincing every now and then, with Jushiro watching carefully for any sign that he should run for the physician.

"Will you go back to the council?" asked Byakuya eventually, his voice tired and soft.

"If you'd like me to, yes."

"Will you listen to what they have to say, then command them like I would? And then afterwards, will you come and tell me who said what, and how the rest of them responded?"

"Of course, Byakuya."

"Thank you. You know, Willow, sometimes, I feel like you're the only one I can truly trust."

Jushiro smiled at that, though he looked a bit pained. "I'm glad to hear that, Byakuya."

He stood to go, but before he could make it to the door, it burst open and a low-ranking guardsman charged in, dropping into a hurried bow.

"Your Highness! Commander Ukitake! I have been ordered yesterday to inform you when it would be time for Lady Rukia Kuchiki to depart."

"Oh, is it time already?" Byakuya asked wearily, getting to his feet.

"Well, the thing is, sir, she's gone!"

"_What_?" gasped both men.

"She's disappeared from her chambers. We've searched for her everywhere but found no trace!"

"Contact Lieutenant Abarai immediately."

"We did, Lord Kuchiki. But he's nowhere to be found either!"

"Then send a search party throughout the encampment and into the surrounding villages. Immediately."

"Yes, sir!" said the guard, who saluted and departed.

The two men looked at each other, stunned.

"Could they have eloped?" whispered Ukitake, eyes wide.

"No! Rukia wouldn't…"

But Byakuya trailed off when he realized that he never really knew _what_ Rukia would or wouldn't do.

X

"Shibata!" Sergeant Ganju Shiba called out in his gruff voice. "Watch that back leg when you lunge!"

Rukia ignored him at first, then jumped when she remembered that _she_ was the one being called out.

"Y-yes, sir!" she squeaked, and corrected her stance.

Her squad was in formation, completely synchronized in their movements as they practiced with their spears.

A shout and a stance. Parry left. Parry right. Another shout, and lunge.

She could hear the lad next to her panting with exertion. The sun was hot on the back of her neck.

Another shout and they repeated the motions. The sergeant was coming near her row now, scrutinizing every move, checking for weaknesses.

"Shibata!" he shouted, just as he reached her. She jumped again, wondering what was wrong this time.

"What did I tell you about that back leg?" said the sergeant, and whacked her with the butt of his own spear before she could respond.

With a yelp, she collapsed and banged her elbows on the ground.

"You're weak! One push and you're down. If someone jabs you like I did, fall on one knee and strike from the side. Fix that back leg! Another mistake and you're on kitchen duty tonight."

"Yes, sir!"

"Don't worry, Shibata," whispered Hanataro Yamada, who was standing to her left. "I'm on kitchen duty tonight too and I'll keep you company."

"No talking!" yelled the sergeant, then turned to the rest of the men. "Again!"

Rukia sighed and got up. She had to be more careful.

They had let her enlist as Yuichi Shibata, the son of a poor merchant. She faked a northerner's accent, and was prepared to say that she often traveled with her father to the south and therefore picked up some of the southern dialect, if she ever slipped up.

It was hot during the days, but she kept her scarf wrapped around her head, no matter what. In the barracks, she slept with nearly all her clothes on and was grateful that she wasn't a larger girl, as there would have been more of her to hide.

She never used the latrines or the smelly bathhouse that the rest of the men did, but would sneak off to the woods instead. It was rough, but she managed. And soon, she stopped washing as often as she used to. Everyone smelled of sweat, horse, and grime, and she got used to it.

She found out what it was to be truly exhausted, worked to the very limits of her endurance. Though she had studied swordplay and hand-to-hand combat at her brother's house, those lessons had always ended whenever shewanted, whenever she was slightly tired. It was exhilarating and frightening at the same time, how little control she had here. It was her commanding officer who decided when she was done, when she was ready to return to the barracks and heave herself into bed, when she ate, when she got up again in the morning for the training exercises.

The long marches, the hours of training, and the manual labor pushed her body to become stronger, leaner, more powerful. She knew hunger, not the miserable aching hunger from her pauper days, but a roaring hunger that came at the end of a day of hard, physical work.

The enlisted men in her squad ate like Renji ate, without caring how they looked as they buried their faces in their bowls, without caring how the food looked, if the vegetables were the right color or if the meat was cut right. She learned to eat just like them. And soon, she relaxed enough to laugh and talk loudly with them, as if she wasn't a noblewoman at all.

Day by day, her fingernails lost their pretty shape and her hands became calloused. She was sunburned and her skin lost the dainty whiteness that the ladies of her brother's court tried so hard to keep. But she was happy that she no longer needed to care about things like that. She was woman dressed as a man, and she had no need for white skin or pretty hands.

Unfortunately, she hadn't yet figured out a way to get close enough to Kurosaki or his sword. The Warlord rarely visited the enlisted men, preferring the company of his generals and friends. She knew he had his own living quarters at the center of the encampment, but it was heavily guarded at all times.

In her free time, she took to walking around alone, memorizing the lay of the land and trying to think of a strategy. It was on one of these walks that she discovered something tactically important. Climbing a tree, she looked out over the area and noticed that while the Southern side of the camp was virtually impenetrable, the northwest was nearly defenseless.

There were guards posted and watchtowers, but not much in the way of defense. Not too surprising, since the South was where Byakuya's troops would most likely attack.

She itched to draw a map of the area, and jumped down from her perch. To her horror, she landed onto Sergeant Shiba and brought them both tumbling down.

"Hey!" he grumbled, pushing her off and standing up. "What d'you think you're doing? Watch it, girl."

"I'm so sorry, sir!" she cried. "I didn't see you, I swear, and I was just climbing a tree for fun! I didn't mean to knock you down!" She bowed from the waist, but froze when she realized what he addressed her as.

"S-sergeant? Did you just…?"

"What? Call you a girl?" He spoke as if what she had done _wasn't _a serious crime. Casually, he bent down and dusted off his pants, not even bothering to look at her.

"B-but how did you know?"

"How could I not know?" he replied simply. "But don't worry. I'm sure your secret is safe where everyone else is concerned. I only figured it out because I'm smarter than most." He chuckled.

"Are you going to report me? Please don't! I'll do anything!"

She hated the way that fear crept into her voice, shrill and desperate. She hated that despite how strong she'd become, she could still grow weak with fear.

"Anything? I don't recommend you going around telling people that." He laughed at his own wit and waved his hand nonchalantly, as if her life wasn't at stake.

"Oh, don't look so worried," he continued. "It doesn't matter to _me_, as long as you can kill enemies when the time comes. Man or woman, the only people _I_ don't want here are the ones who act all tough but then scream and blubber and piss themselves on the battlefield. You're not like that, I can tell."

He slapped her on the back with his meaty hand, making her stumble.

"You may be weak now, but you'll get stronger. You _want _to get stronger, I can see it in your eyes."

"I'm… but sir, I…"

A bell rang merrily in the distance, the sound that she had come to associate with warm food and companionship.

"Chow time," said the sergeant, smiling as if they had been talking of nothing more serious than the weather. "Go on, before it's all gone."

He gave her a shove towards the dining pavilion.

"Th-thank you, sir!" she said, and bowed to him before scampering off.

She was happier, after that day. Knowing that someone knew about her identity, and supported her, was a good feeling, a pleasant weight in her belly.

But at the same time, guilt gnawed at her conscience when she remembered that she was, in fact, the enemy. She was only playing a charade and one day, she would be back on the other side of the battlefield. She would be wearing her brother's colors and cheering for her brother's victory. What would the Sergeant think then?

"Harder, Shibata! You won't kill any Southerners with such a weak attack," he said in his gruff voice, during practice one day.

Her face tight with concentration, she tightened her grip on her practice sword and swung again at the dummy. Shouts echoed through the training grounds as each squad member swung theirs as well.

There was a loud crack as the Sergeant stepped beside her and struck her sword with his own. To her satisfaction, she didn't lose her grip.

"Hmph," he said. "So your grip's better. Now make your attack stronger. Like this!"

With a grunt, he stepped up and struck the dummy with a blow to the head. It shook and bits of straw landed on Rukia, who sneezed.

"Pretend that it's Byakuya Kuchiki himself," said the Sergeant. "Go for a killing blow."

Instead, she pretended that it was the youthful face of Ichigo Kurosaki on that dummy and landed a blow that was quite impressive indeed.

"Way to go!" cheered Hanataro Yamada, who was practicing not far away.

"Don't get cocky, Yamada! You're next. Show me what you've got!"

"Y-yes, sir!"

Rukia liked Hanataro Yamada. She and Hanataro called each other by name and whenever one of them was issued the punishment of kitchen duty, the other would always somehow do something wrong by the end of the day and wind up scrubbing dishes too. There was something inherently likable about him, though he was often bullied for his shyness and nervous stammering.

"My father is scholar," he told her one day, as they took their shift at guard duty. "But, it doesn't bring in much money. I enlisted so my family would have one less mouth to feed. The work is hard here, but the pay isn't bad, so I send most of it back to my family."

He blushed a little. "That's why I never have enough money to buy you a drink. I'll save some next time, so you won't always have to treat me to drinks."

She laughed, knowing that one of her hair brooches at home could have paid for 10 jugs of wine. He laughed with her, thinking that she was making fun of him and taking it in stride.

X

The bar was smoky and dark, and stank of stale liquor. Most of the men were sprawled out at their tables, drunk and mumbling.

Sergeant Shiba was smoking a pipe, and it had Rukia coughing whenever he blew smoke in her direction.

The higher-ups had given their squad a day off, and the Sergeant had invited everyone to drinks, at a nearby village.

"Are you going to finish that?" asked the Sergeant, pointing at her half-full cup.

"No, sir. You have it," she replied, and he took it from her, tipping his head back as he downed it in one go.

She looked around. No one seemed to be conscious enough to overhear them, and the bartender was busy wiping down glasses. She mustered up the courage to ask.

"Hey, Sergeant Shiba?"

"What?"

"I've been wondering… why have you covered for me all this time? Impersonating a soldier is a pretty serious crime, from what I know. I'm grateful, of course! But you must be putting yourself at risk too, if you're letting me get away with it."

He sighed and wiped his mouth on his sleeve. "Well, I think it's because I understand your situation."

Rukia froze for a moment, then realized that if he _really _knew who she was, he would have reported her without hesitation.

"Your family must have wanted a boy, huh?" he said, peering at her. "Or they already have a boy, and you're second best for not having a pair of stones. Typical, that kind of thing."

Rukia nodded, figuring that the best thing to do was just to go along with it. "Yeah," she said. "Typical. But how did you know?"

"It's the look on your face sometimes. Your resolve is stronger than that of most men in this army. You look like someone with more than a goal, more than love for your ruler. You look like you want to prove yourself. You want your son-loving parents and your brother to look at you and see you for what you can do. You want the kind of glory that you make with your own hands."

She frowned, lost in thought. Was he right?

"I know what it feels like," he said, staring glumly ahead. "I know how it feels to be second-best to your own sibling. My older brother, Kaien, was a war hero. He must have killed a hundred of those Southerner bastards. My sister Kukaku really looked up to him. When he died, it seemed like there was a hole in our family. I was the only brother she had left, but I think she never admired me as much as she did him. She never had as much confidence in me.

"This is why I joined Kurosaki's army. I wanted to prove myself, just like you're doing. I want Kukaku to look at me and see that I'm just as good as Kaien was. She's here, you know, as part of the Women's Division."

"There's a division for women?" Rukia gasped. "I thought it was forbidden for women to fight in the military."

"Not if you're in the Women's Division. But don't be fooled. The name might not be flashy, but the Division is made up of only the most elite fighters in the land. No one without the skill of a trained assassin can hope to join. The Division doesn't train soldiers; it kills enemies and that's that. A novice girl like you couldn't hope to make it there."

An elite women's fighting force? Did Byakuya's side know about this? She stored it in her memory, another scrap of precious information.

Ganju Shiba glanced sideways at her scarf-bound hair.

"By the way, you should chop some of that hair off. None of the men here have such long hair. You're more likely to give yourself away with that, and it can't be easy to manage either."

"No, I couldn't!" she said. "If it gets too long for regulations, then I'll trim it, but I want it to be long. I want to go home with long hair."

"Oh?" He grinned at her blushing face. "You've got a sweetheart at home you want to show off to?"

"S-something like that…"

She smiled as she imagined Byakuya's fingers running through her long hair. How she missed him! Was he missing her?

Sergeant Shiba grunted and downed another drink. "Well," he said. "I'll see Sis again tomorrow. The Women's Division is returning to base after their latest mission. And just in time, too. It's his Highness' birthday soon. There'll be a huge celebration for him."

"Oh?" Rukia's mind was spinning with thoughts. A celebration! Did that mean Kurosaki would leave his quarters? And maybe the guards would be off-duty as well, if there was such a big celebration. Would this be the perfect time to sneak into his rooms and see if she could find something?

"I think I'll turn in, Sergeant," she said abruptly, wanting to spend some time thinking her plan over. "Good night."

"Wait," he called, just as she was getting up. "After all that, you at least owe me your real name. I know it's not Yuichi Shibata."

She told him the only name possible, the one name that was perfect for this situation.

"Sir, my real name is Kiyone Kotetsu."

He nodded, eyes half-closed, and signaled the bartender for another glass.

She left him then, sitting alone. If she had known that Sergeant Shiba was a doomed man, she would have stayed a little longer. She would have talked with him, smoked with him, bought him another drink.

But her thoughts were full of other things that night, and she left him there, nodding sleepily into his glass.

X

Next day, there was a stir in the camp.

"They're here! They're here!" whispered the men, smiling wide.

Everyone gathered in a huge crowd as the gates opened, letting in a somber procession of armored women. They were dusty from the road, and looked weary, but there was almost a palpable feeling of _danger _around them. There was a collective sigh among the men, and Rukia, who had gone out of curiosity, was nearly crushed by those who were trying to get a better look.

The Division marched in, headed by a muscular, dark-skinned woman.

"That's Yoruichi Shihoin," someone said. "She commands the Women's Division."

But the one who caught her eye was the dark-haired lady who brought up the rear. Rukia gasped and pushed her way forward to get a better look. The hard, cold face turned towards her for a split second, and gray eyes widened in surprise.

_Soifon! _

Rukia had only met this woman a handful of times, but she knew that Soifon worked for her brother. She was the only woman Rukia knew that actively participated in the military. But Rukia always thought that Soifon was more of a strategist, not a fighter. And what was Soifon doing here?

Realization dawned on her as she remembered Renji's words. Something about a codeword: Suzumebachi.

Apparently, Rukia wasn't the only spy in Kurosaki's camp. And apparently, Soifon had recognized her. She bit her lip as the procession passed. What should she do? Should she find someway to contact her only ally?

It was only a short while later that Soifon answered that question for her.

That afternoon, Rukia was walking alone with her thoughts when suddenly, the woman appeared in her line of sight. Before she could react, Soifon grabbed her mouth and jaw in a bruising grip and slammed her into a nearby post.

_Ow! _

"Don't speak," hissed Soifon, eyes ablaze and looking absolutely terrifying. She looked around to check that they were alone.

"Don't say anything, except to answer my questions. What the _hell_ are you doing here, Rukia Kuchiki?"

No one, who actually knew who she was, ever spoke to her that way. It was strangely exhilarating.

"I… I…" Faced with such a direct, angry question, Rukia found herself afraid to speak. "I'm s-supposed to be undercover. I wanted to… to…"

"Idiot! You snuck away, didn't you? You thought you'd be a hero? You thought you'd come and make some trouble, then go home and get a pat on the head from your brother? You have no idea how serious things are!"

"I…"

"No wonder I found Abarai skulking around in the woods! He's looking after _you _isn't he?"

Rukia gasped at that. "Renji's here?"

"I saw him hanging around the outside. He's managed to stay hidden for now, but if I saw him, then others can see him too."

Rukia felt her cheeks heating up in indignation. She was being stalked, the whole time! Renji obviously thought she couldn't take care of herself, and stuck around to watch her. The idiot! He was putting himself in danger as well!

"Don't give me that look," snapped Soifon. "You're not the one on a dangerous mission here. _I _am. You're not the one whose life is on the line. _I am! _If you cause trouble here, what d'you think will happen? They'll search this place high and low for any other sign of foul play, which will cause problems for _me_!"

"But I won't be any trouble! I won't even-"

"Damn it! You have no idea, do you? You have no idea what you've gotten yourself into. There are lives at stake here, not just yours and mine, but whole battalions of your brother's men who are relying on the information I sneak them. If that's compromised, we're done for!"

Soifon groaned in frustration and slammed her fist into the pole, next to Rukia's head. Rukia gulped and waited for Soifon to calm down, which she did after awhile.

"Go home, Rukia Kuchiki."

"I can't! I came here to do something and I can't go home with nothing to show for it!"

"Fine, then don't go home. I don't care what you do. I won't look out for you. That besotted idiot, Abarai, is doing well enough on his own. Just don't draw attention to yourself. Don't do anything stupid. And _don't get in my way_. If you cause problems that interfere with my mission, I will not hesitate to thrash you within an inch of your life, tie you to a horse, and send you back home myself. Understood?"

Intimidated beyond words, Rukia nodded.

She blinked and Soifon was gone. She didn't realize she had been holding her breath until it came out in a trembling _whoosh_.

There was a burst of soft laughter to her left. She turned her head to see a group of soft, pretty girls, walking across the training grounds. They were entertainers, dancers that were hired to put on a show for the men. They would probably dance for the birthday celebration.

An idea came to Rukia and, even though she was still covered in a cold sweat from her encounter with Soifon, she started forming a plan.

…..

Thanks so much for reading! Please review and let me know what you think!


	3. Chapter 3

Disclaimer: I don't own Bleach or any Bleach characters. This fanfiction is for entertainment purposes only and no profit is being made.

Warnings: This fic will contain violence, gore, bad language, sex, a relationship that's abusive on both sides, and other mature themes. The main pairings are Rukia/Ichigo and Rukia/Byakuya.

Notes: I realized that throughout the story, I've been referring to pale or white skin as the beauty standard. This does not necessarily reflect my personal opinions. Bleach's Soul Society is set in something similar to Edo-period Japan, so I use aspects of Japanese and Chinese culture for my fic. A part of that is regarding white or pale skin as beautiful, so I write my characters to think that way. I don't mean to insinuate that pale/white skin is actually the beauty standard. Just to clarify!

…..

Chapter 3:

There were strings of glass beads hanging from Rukia's headdress. They trembled and clicked together whenever she made the slightest movement. There were more of those beads hanging from her belt so that she was a walking noisemaker. She wore ribbons on her ankles and wrists, and there were little gold bells dangling from those. Her skirt was supposed to represent a flower, and had six panels that looked like petals. A single turn would send them flaring out like a blooming rose.

Having grown accustomed to the rough fabric of the uniform and the constricting armor, she now felt odd in a dancer's costume.

She felt naked with the silky clothes and the bare feet.

Not to mention, the flowery perfume was strong enough to make her gag.

"No, no, that's not enough!" one of the other girls had cried, when Rukia only stuck the tips of her fingers into the pot and dabbed a small amount on her neck. "You have to splash it on your arms, like _this_. See? Or else the audience won't be able to smell you."

How nice for the audience, Rukia thought. They get to smell flowers from afar while I suffocate.

On the day his birthday dawned, Ichigo Kurosaki had declared it a day off for the enlisted men. There was better food at the midday meal, and free wine. Kurosaki himself came down to visit the men and drank a cup of wine with them.

"Here's to all of us!" he had shouted in all his youthful heartiness, and raised his cup high above his head. The cheers were deafening as he downed the harsh liquor and wiped his mouth on his sleeve.

"On this day, I was born. And on every birthday since, I have never wished for a better gift than peace. Peace and victory! I love you all like my own brothers, and together, we will vanquish our enemies. Together, we _will_ stand on the golden field of victory! I know that by my next birthday, I will receive the most precious gift of all. Victory, victory!"

The roar of the answering cheer had been deafening and it left Rukia's ears ringing. But even she hadn't been able to suppress a small shiver of admiration. Kurosaki had looked impressive and his speech sounded good, there was no denying that.

The men had stared at Kurosaki with fervent admiration, eyes shining and mouths gaping, as if to say, "Yes, yes, _he _is the one to be king! He is young and powerful and so noble. He will win us our kingdom."

Rukia had sighed when she compared Ichigo Kurosaki to Byakuya. Her brother, though he was a good commander, never quite had the same vitality. He never quite held his men's attention so easily.

She had snuck away as soon as the rest of the men were too busy drinking and partying to miss her. Unfortunately, the guards still protected Kurosaki's living quarters so she couldn't get in during the day.

But, she found out a few days ago that Kurosaki would be holding his own private celebration later that night, and she planned to infiltrate it.

There was to be music and dancing, so Rukia had bribed one of the dancing girls to let her take the girl's place. She gave up part of her necklace, an old gift from Hisana that she always wore around her neck.. The pretty gold chain, Rukia gave to the dancer. She kept the jade pendant hidden, tucked away on the inside of her undergarments, close to her heart.

The gold china by itself was of very high quality, and would probably bring more money than the girl was paid for just one dance.

However, the hard part was actually learning the dance. At her brother's court, she had been obligated to learn the basics, but she always ran out on her lessons or pretended to be sick so she wouldn't have to attend.

But even if she had learned her lessons better, these Northerners danced differently. The clothes were thin and revealing to show the beauty of a pale arm, the curve of a breast, or the delicate arch of a bare foot. Bells and beads were used to create a chiming rhythm. There was a lot more twisting and hip movement, not like the controlled, elegant dances of Byakuya's court.

Either way, Rukia was helpless when it came to dance. The rehearsal went terribly, and the woman who coordinated the dance called her a skinny, awkward, country bumpkin. Rukia didn't throw her fan at the crone's face in retaliation, but she wanted to.

"That's it," the old crone had said, pointing a bony finger at Rukia. "Go home. You're not going to embarrass the rest of these girls in front of his Highness tonight. You're out of the show."

"Oh, let her stay!" Orihime Inoue had interjected. She was a pretty girl and the best dancer of the bunch. "Here, I have an idea."

Grabbing Rukia's hand, Orihime had pulled her to the very back of the stage-like platform. "When they call us to dance, stand back here. Just ignore all the complicated stuff. While the rest of us dance, you just stay back there and move your arms a bit. Like this, see? Make butterfly wings. You'll be the background."

"Hmph," said the crone, nodding in approval at this method. "I suppose she _could _just stand there and look pretty. A pretty block of wood."

"Don't listen to her, Kiyone," Orihime whispered, gray eyes big and mischievous. "She looks more like a block of wood than you do. And remember, you'll look better if you have fun! After all, what's the point of dancing if you're not going to enjoy yourself? Ignore her, and ignore the men who'll be watching you. And don't forget to throw in some hip!"

"Th-thanks!" Rukia had replied, flustered at the liveliness of Orihime Inoue.

It was almost time now. Rukia and the other girls were all waiting in the darkened hallway, waiting for the cue to enter his Highness' parlor and start their dance.

Rukia's heart was pounding. She could feel the pulse in her wrists, the rhythm of her blood making the ribbons twitch. Sighing, she laid her forehead against the wall, to take some pressure off her throbbing scalp. The headdress was making her head ache, pulling mercilessly at her hair.

This would be the first time she'd be seeing Ichigo Kurosaki in the same room. Her self-assigned mission was to find the secret of his sword, but she felt the thrum of desire in her: the desire to kill the Warlord where he sat. Could she resist the temptation, when she was so close?

Could she do it? She could give up everything and attempt to strike him with her kido. Hado Four, right through the forehead, if she could aim it. Or Hado 31, aimed at the heavy perfumed curtains around his throne, setting the whole place on fire. She would be caught and killed, of course, but…

Any thoughts of assassination were held off when a voice from within announced: "And now, a dance!"

The minimal whispering and giggling among the girls immediately stopped. The dancers stood up straighter, taking up their postures. The music started to play.

They filed in, bare feet stepping over the cool wood of the stage. Rukia, trying her best to mimic the graceful movements of the others, bowed before the throne, as did the other girls. After this initial show of respect, the others stepped forwards and she stepped back until she was at the very rear of the procession.

The dance began, and Rukia was glad that she was exempt from most of it. Her simple, monotonous movements and her position in the back gave her time to study her enemy.

Ichigo Kurosaki sat on a throne-like chair, dressed in robes of deep blue. Sitting around him in a semi-circle were his closest friends, advisors, and generals. They were lounging in their seats, watching the performance with mild interest.

Rukia recognized three of them: Shunsui Kyoraku, the general who had visited the Southern provinces as an ambassador during peaceful times; Sosuke Aizen, the Warlord's military strategist, who was renowned for being a brilliant man; and Yoruichi Shihoin, the Commander of the Women's Division.

Kurosaki himself was looking regal and smug. He was relaxed on his throne, one arm flung over the carved armrest. His face was a mixture of languid pleasure and pride. His seat was placed above his assembled friends, as if they were his kingdom, as if he had already won the war and tacked his banners all over the land, as if he were already king.

Then, Rukia almost laughed aloud when she saw his eyes flick over to Orihime Inoue. He was _leering_ at her!

He did a little head bob whenever she leapt nimbly from foot to foot, transfixed by the movement of her breasts.

How amusing, Rukia thought, that she ever believed that he was noble and impressive! Why, he was just a common man, vulgar and lustful like any old drunk at a bar. He might have the talent to play on the emotions of his men like he would an instrument, but he was just an ordinary man who drooled and leered when he saw a pretty, near-naked girl.

"Ehh, what's the meaning of this, Ichigo?" Commander Shihoin complained, stretching in her seat like a cat. "They're all girls. I want to see some pretty boys dancing."

"Why would I want to look at boys, when I can look at these lovely creatures?" he returned, not moving his eyes from Orihime.

Rukia glanced over at Orihime, to see if she was uncomfortable at such scrutiny, but Orihime's expression was cleverly hidden.

She was wearing a wreath of paper roses from which dangled strings of clear glass beads, covering her eyes like a crystal veil. She was smiling, but whether she was smiling at _him _or at herself, Rukia couldn't tell.

And when Orihime danced, it was as if her feet were walking on air, so lightly did she carry herself. She threw out her arm in a graceful twist, a movement towards the Warlord that could have either been a dance move or an open seduction. Her fingers closed around thin air and pulled back, as if she was drawing something closer to her, and Kurosaki's eyes followed every move. He leaned forward, as if he was a fish being reeled in.

Rukia stared at the dancing woman, and felt very much like a clumsy, awkward imitation as she stayed in the back and flapped her arms like a stupid bird.

"Stop!" Kurosaki suddenly said, standing up and raising his hand. The music stopped. The dancers, thrown out of their rhythm, gasped and tripped over themselves.

"If Miss Inoue wouldn't mind, I would see her dance by herself."

Orihime, who was the only one who hadn't tripped up when the music stopped, bowed silently to him, lowering her head so that the beaded veil reached her chin. From where she was standing, Rukia could see the excited flutter of long eyelashes behind those beads, and the slightest blush on Orihime's cheeks.

The next thing she knew, the other dancers were filing out of the room and Rukia hurriedly followed them, leaving Orihime behind.

"Well," said one of them, when they reached the empty hallway, "that was a disappointment. All that work and not one of them even looked at me!"

"I heard that he's taken a liking to her," said another girl, lips twisting nastily. "He gives her presents, you know. She got a gold bracelet from him the other day. All the servants are whispering about it. They say she's not just dancing for him anymore, if you know what I mean."

They lingered in the hallway for a long time, ready for the command to reenter. Eventually, a servant came and gave them small cups of water to drink and clean handkerchiefs to wipe their faces on.

But even when the music stopped, there were no further calls from within. They weren't needed anymore.

Grumbling, the dancers left for the changing room, but Rukia hung back. Boldly, she returned to the chamber's little back entrance and peeked in.

The musicians were half-asleep. There was no more playing and the stage was empty. Orihime Inoue wasn't dancing, but was sitting next to Kurosaki on her own little stool. Across the wooden platform, Rukia stared at her, entranced.

She could smell the wax of good candles and the lingering tang of rice wine, as sharp as Orihime's perfume. Next to the somberly clothed military officers, the dancer looked like a faerie, some otherworldly creature who had fluttered down from the sky, draped in nothing but silk and vibrant red hair.

Rukia watched as Kurosaki reached down and removed Orihime's headdress, tossing it aside like it was hindrance. She blinked up at him with big gray eyes and he leered again.

He poured wine into a saucer-like cup and offered it to her, as if feeding a little kitten. She took it with both hands and drank delicately, pink lips kissing the rim of the cup.

"Miss Inoue," Rukia heard him whisper. The others were watching this exchange with bored expressions, as if they'd seen this play out a hundred times before. They stared at Orihime as if she was nothing more than a slab of meat, to be poked and prodded at the marketplace and bought for the right price.

Rukia had the sudden urge to jog across the wooden stage, jump down in front of them all, grab Orihime's arm, and pull the girl away from that disgusting leer and those condescending looks.

X

The dancing girls had their own little loft within Kurosaki's house. The sleeping quarters were cramped and cold, but Rukia didn't mind. She didn't plan to sleep much, anyway.

After the lights had been doused, she lay awake on her cot, waiting for the entire household to go to sleep as well.

Orihime had returned much later and fell into bed with weary sigh. She smelled musty and sweaty.

When it was near dawn, Rukia got up and put on a robe. She tied her hair back with a bit of string and snuck out.

The hallways were still dark, but Rukia navigated by touch. Her heart beat with every footstep, and the danger of being caught was almost palpable in the air. But, just as she expected, there weren't many people around. The servants were either dismissed, given the night off in honor of Kurosaki's birthday, or still drunk from the leftover wine.

She had heard that Kurosaki kept his sword with him at all times, so she snooped around until she found his bedchamber. She would have used her kido to render the guards unconscious, but it seemed as if they, too, had been dismissed. There was only a servant boy guarding the door and he was fast asleep on the floor.

She paused at the threshold, trying to calm her own heartbeat, telling herself forcefully that it was too late to turn back. Quietly, she stepped over the servant boy and entered the room. She looked around, blinking in the dim light.

Immediately, she saw Kurosaki asleep in his bed. His sheets were thrown carelessly to the foot of the bed and Rukia gulped when she saw that he slept completely naked. There was the lingering smell of musk and Orihime's perfume, and she realized just why the guards had been sent away.

She wrinkled her nose.

Rukia took another step and scanned the walls, in case Zangetsu was mounted there. There was a large, marked map tacked onto one wall, a banner on the other, and a painting of a pretty lady, but there was no sword.

Another quick look around the room revealed no floor stands that could have held the sword.

She went a little deeper into the room, a little nearer to his bed. There was a scroll hanging above his headboard, covered with beautiful calligraphy. She took another step and squinted at it.

She caught the word for "sword" on the white parchment, and her heart leapt with triumph. Perhaps this was a clue to the secret of Zangetsu!

Fearfully, she glanced at the sleeping man. He was snoring, and didn't seem likely to wake up, so she tiptoed closer.

She squinted at the scroll, trying to read the black ink in the dim light.

"Sword… extension… self… The sword is an extension of you. But I knew that already! Tch, this is nothing but a poem."

She turned to search elsewhere in the room, but gasped aloud when she felt a sharp pain in her scalp.

Turning around, she saw that the end of her long hair had been caught. It was in the hand of Ichigo Kurosaki! He was awake!

"Ehh," he mumbled, pulling his face up from the pillow to look at her. "What's this? Who are you?"

Her breath caught in her throat. Every muscle in her body froze as she stared into the sleepy face of the Warlord himself.

"Are you an assassin?" he whispered. When she failed to reply, he tugged hard at her tresses.

She yelped as she was pulled onto the bed next to him. In an instant, his hand was at her throat.

"I'm not!" she cried out, panicking. "I'm not, I'm not!"

Even with both hands, she couldn't pry him off her throat. Though the light was dim, she could see how strong he was, how intensely his eyes burned. From the tips of his fingers to the top of his orange head, he radiated power and danger. She knew he could tear out her throat with just his bare hand.

How foolish she was, for thinking she could get past him!

He tilted his head and looked quizzically at her. For the moment, he loosened his grip and reached over to the bedside table to light a candle.

The yellow light blinded Rukia as he held it up, looking close into her pale, trembling face.

"Sit up," he commanded, and she did immediately. He studied her, scrutinizing her with those intense brown eyes, and she found it quite impossible to look away. He looked at her face, her long hair, the loose folds of her kimono.

He smelled like he was still drunk. That, mixed with Orihime's lingering scent, made her fight back a sneeze.

It was almost comical, the world's fiercest warrior was sitting before her, naked and armed with nothing but a candle, and she, a nobleman's sister, trembling like a leaf.

He looked at her for a long while, then sighed.

"Oh," he said simply, and rolled his eyes. "You're just a little girl. Wait, don't tell me. You're one of _those _girls, aren't you? A pleasure girl? Did they send you? "

"I…"

Without waiting for her answer, he slid off the bed, not caring that he was naked, and turned to light three more candles. The room was illuminated in pale, yellow light and she could see that he had a tattoo on his back, close to his right shoulder blade.

Ugh. She always thought that tattoos were awfully vulgar.

"I _told_ them I wouldn't be needing any services tonight," he grumbled, as if to himself. "What a bother. Well, I suppose they thought since it was my birthday…"

Rukia felt her face growing hot. Was he thinking that she was a prostitute? How insulting!

He slumped down next to her again, making the mattress shake from the impact. She recoiled a bit when he reached up and took her jaw in his hand. He tilted her head from left to right, then upwards, so he could see her neck. He touched her hair, stroked it between his fingers.

"Hmm. Well, you're not bad-looking. And since you're already here and I'm awake, why not?"

It was only then that she realized the danger she was in, but it was too late. Without another word, he rolled on top of her, pinning her to the mattress.

To her utter disgust, she could feel him against her leg, flaccid and fleshy. Without any illusion of gentleness, he buried one hand in her hair and the other in the opening of her kimono. With a flick of his wrist, he exposed her breast.

She screamed then, and pushed upwards at him as hard as she could. She lashed out with her feet and caught him in the shin.

"Damn it!" he growled. "What the hell's the matter with you?"

She gave him another shove and he fell back. As fast as she could, she scrambled off the bed and gathered her kimono tightly about herself. She was furious.

She wanted to kill him. Wanted to leap at him and take his throat into her hands, gouge his eyes out, pull his disgusting tongue out. How dare he, how dare he touch her! How dare he handle her so roughly when she was a noblewoman, the sister of Lord Byakuya himself?

He was glaring at her now, as if she were an obstinate child.

She had to force herself to remember that _he _was the Warlord here, and that _he _was the one in power.

So, she didn't say all the ugly things she had in mind. Instead, she bowed her head, as if contrite, and said, "Forgive me, please, Your Highness! Your servant is dull and inexperienced. Please allow me to return home and I will accept whatever punishment my superiors see fit to give me."

"Oh, be quiet," he groaned. He rubbed at his face and flopped back onto the mattress, looking quite put out. "I _told _them to stop sending awkward, virgin country girls. They're such a pain, squealing and struggling the moment I try anything." He peered at her with an annoyed look.

"You're not going to start crying, are you?"

"O-of course not!" Rukia snapped.

"Good. I can't stand weeping women." He sighed again. "Well, you can't leave without doing _something_. Do you know how to use your hand? Or your mouth?"

"Wha… _No!_ That's disgusting!"

She expected him to scold her for her tone, but instead, he laughed. "My, my, a prudish whore. You really are a virgin, eh?"

Rukia grew even redder, not sure how to answer. He laughed at her again and she gritted her teeth.

The orange-haired man sat up and reached for the tousled sheets.

"Come on, don't just stand there. Sit on the bed and put the covers around you. You must be cold. Don't worry, I won't bite."

She _was _cold. She hadn't noticed it until now, but the temperature had dropped as the time went on. She shivered and put her arms around herself. She looked at the bed with the rumpled bed sheets and the naked, sprawling man and wondered if she should just make a run for it.

"Hey, what's your name?" he asked.

"Um… ahh…"

"Spit it out," he said impatiently, and tossed a pillow at her, the same way someone would throw it to chase away an annoying dog. She stared when the pillow hit her in the chest and bounced off.

"I'm Kiyone," she answered, and hesitantly took a step closer to the bed.

"Kiyone, huh? You know, you're pretty cute. Too bad you're-"

He was interrupted by a loud gong that reverberated throughout the entire encampment. Rukia gasped. It was the alarm!

Kurosaki swore and leapt out of bed, tying one of the sheets around his waist.

"What is it?" Rukia asked fearfully, as he threw open the windows to see what was happening below.

Instead of answering her, he went to fumble around in a drawer. He pulled out a gold coin and flipped it at her. She squeaked in surprise and barely managed to catch it.

"There," he said. "Now get lost."

She resisted the urge to throw it back at him as three uniformed guards burst in shouting, "Your Highness! The alarm has been sounded!"

While the guards jabbered and panicked and made a fuss, she slipped away.

X

"Where have you been, Shibata!" Sergeant Shiba yelled, as Rukia finally made it back to the barracks, huffing and panting.

She should have reported immediately after the alarm was sounded, but it took her awhile to change back into her uniform, which she had hidden under a rock during her adventure last night.

"Sorry, sir!" she said. "I was-"

"Never mind, just get in line!" he barked, and Rukia hurried to comply. She ran to get in place with the rest of her squad, who were gathered in front of the Sergeant, awaiting their orders.

"What's going on?" she asked Hanataro.

"I don't know, but it's something bad."

"Listen up!" said the Sergeant, and everyone stood at attention. It was a worried, tense atmosphere. The Sergeant was pale and grim, and his voice shook slightly when he spoke.

"The battalions we sent out on for the attack some days ago… We just got a report that they have failed to get past the 53rd district, or advance against the Southerners. The report also mentioned heavy losses, and the loss of our strongholds near the 60th district."

Several dismayed gasps broke out among the men. Everyone had been so sure that the 53rd would be captured before the beginning of winter. All the strategic plans involving using the 53rd as a permanent occupation were now botched.

Not to mention that the land around the 60th district was a terrible loss. It had been the pride of the Warlord, to have captured one of the richest areas in the Southern Provinces and now, it had fallen back into the hands of Byakuya Kuchiki.

Wars were expensive. A Warlord needed good land, woods, ports, and fertile farmland. He needed taxes and rent, paid by tenants. He needed good hunting lands and farms to produce food that can be used to feed an army, or sold directly for cash. The 60th was a ripe, fertile place, somewhere that Kurosaki and his predecessors always had at their disposal, a place that they reaped for profits and money. The loss would be a heavy blow on Kurosaki's finances.

"And worst of all," said the Sergeant, "General Iba, as well as others, were taken hostage. The enemy is advancing on us as we speak, and I heard that they are demanding a surrender."

More shocked gasps broke out among the men, but Rukia couldn't suppress the triumph in her heart. Finally, the tide was turning in favor of her brother!

"All squads are called to march into combat," said Sergeant Shiba. "We must go as well."

Rukia's heart skipped a beat and the brief surge of triumph was choked off. _No!_

"B-but, sir!" one of the men called out. "We can't! We haven't even finished our basic training! We aren't ready for battle!"

"No, we haven't finished our training," agreed Sergeant Shiba. He was frowning. "But we _must_ be ready for battle. The order has been given. There is no choice but to march out. We are in a bad situation, men. We must protect our stronghold here at all costs, and if we must lay down our lives, then we will."

The next few hours passed in a blur for Rukia. It seemed like a dream to her as she followed the pale-faced men of her squad to the armory. It seemed unreal as she hefted a spear into her hands and tied on her helmet.

Ganju Shiba tried to put up a brave front, banging his spear against his shield and encouraging his men. But it was impossible, they all knew, for such an inexperienced group to gain any sort of victory. They would be cut down within seconds if they were called to fight.

"Don't worry," she found herself whispering to a white-faced Hanataro, as they marched out on heavy feet. "Don't worry, we'll be fine. We'll stick together."

She comforted him, though she herself was sick with fear. She never thought it would come to this. She had never planned to be marching out against her own people. How could she raise her sword to the soldiers who wore her brother's colors?

"My last letter home told them that I was happy here," Hanataro whimpered. "I wrote to them that we were winning the war, that I had made new friends, and that I was well. What will Mother think when the next letter tells them that I died?"

"Courage!" was the only thing she could say. The creaking of the wooden gates of the encampment closing behind her sounded like doom.

The air was cold and biting against her skin. Buried amidst the formation of her squad, she could see that every man was shivering. Whether it was the fear or the cold, she couldn't tell.

"Kotetsu," said the Sergeant, coming over to her and grasping her shoulder. His voice was lowered to a whisper. "Don't be reckless. Charge with the rest of the men when I give the order, but don't break off from the group. Stay close to me when you fight."

"Y-yes, sir," she replied, surprised that he was addressing her as a woman. The loss of his touch on her shoulder felt oddly like farewell.

The march itself took hours and they stopped in the middle for a rest and a meal, but to her, it seemed like no time had passed from when they left to when they were standing before the Northern army. She could see her brother's deep purple banner fluttering in the distance and it was an achingly familiar sight. She strained to see Byakuya Kuchiki, but couldn't pick him out from the crowd.

Kurosaki wasn't there either. Instead, one of the other generals was leading their army. Kurosaki was probably back at their stronghold, plotting their next move should they lose this battle.

She could hear the horses champing at their bits, their hoofs grinding into the dusty ground. The heavy breathing of the men around her was almost like a chant. She could feel the tension, as if each of their nerves were a tight bowstring drawn back to the breaking point.

Her eyes blurred as she stared and stared into the horizon, trying to make out the faces of the enemy. They were so many! Her own mind was full of thoughts of how to survive without being the traitor that killed her own people.

The call to charge came soon, way too soon. Before she even had time to think, the crowd around her was screaming and running forward, spears at the ready. The roar was deafening.

She felt ready to faint, but held tight to her spear and forced her legs to run. Beside her, Hanataro was white-faced, mouth open as he shouted.

The Northern army came at them like a wave and the collision knocked her off her feet. She lost her well-practiced grip and her spear slipped from her hands. She didn't know who knocked her down, only that she had to get up.

Rukia couldn't hear herself crying out in pain; she couldn't hear the steady voice of Sergeant Shiba and his orders. The roar of battle cries and the hiss of swords being drawn were all that she could hear.

On instinct, she drew her sword as she rose and slashed at the person in front of her. In the chaos, she missed and lunged too far, nearly losing her footing again. The Northerner, the loyal soldier of her own flesh and blood, raised his own sword and screamed as he brought it down.

She jumped back just in time to feel the blade whiz past her nose. She had never seen anyone turn such a vicious face to her, never seen that much hate in someone's eyes.

She felt it like a rock in her stomach: to the man in front of her, she was dirty-faced boy in the enemy's armor. She was no noblewoman. She was no civilian. She would die by his sword if she didn't protect herself.

To her left, she heard a familiar scream. She turned to see Hanataro, shy, kind, nervous Hanataro, cut down without mercy. He fell, like a broken doll, eyes open and blank.

It took her a few seconds to realize that she was screaming with rage. It took her a few seconds to be aware that she was charging forward and swinging her sword. The metal of her blade screamed as she brought it to impact.

She thrust with all her strength and a second later, there lay the first man she ever killed. She felt no remorse at that moment. She didn't care that it was her brother's purple cloth that she stained with blood.

She was weeping and screaming and charging forward again, but three of them came at her at the same time.

Rukia parried off the first few blows, and some of them glanced off her armor. But she couldn't hold her ground when up against so many. She was driven back. She was cut, shallow but painful. One of them struck the side of her head and she went down, ears ringing.

When she looked back up, she saw three swords flashing in the sunlight, dripping with her blood, ready to come down and end her life.

_I'm going to die_, she realized.

Then _he _was there, the unshakable, unstoppable Sergeant Shiba. With a mighty swing of his sword, he beat all three of them back. With repeated blows, he cut them down.

"Get up, Shibata!" he shouted and grabbed her by the arm, hauling her up. "Don't let your guard-"

There was an impact, and he stumbled. Dazed, Ganju Shiba looked downwards to see a barbed arrow tip protruding from his belly.

"Sergeant! Oh no!"

"Damn," he ground out.

For what seemed like an eternity, Rukia stared at the wound blooming on her Sergeant's front, uncomprehending that it was her commander's blood that was staining the dust, that he had taken a hit while his back was turned because he was protecting _her_.

With a groan, he slumped forwards into her arms and they both fell to the ground. He died, even as she clutched at his shoulders and screamed for him to get up. She pushed at him and pulled at his uniform, smearing his blood all over her hands.

He died, glaring at nothing, as if he were angry at the world, angry that he had been killed. His face had been streaked with brown and red and his helmet had fallen from his head.

"Sergeant Shiba! Sergeant Shiba!" she shrieked, over and over. "Help me! Help!"

But as she looked around, all her comrades either were fallen or wounded. The archers of the South were preparing for another volley, and Rukia threw herself to the ground, huddling against Ganju Shiba's corpse. Dart after dart struck her dead sergeant, and she was disgusted with herself for using him as a shield.

_I'm going to die_, she thought again, as she heard the thundering echo of the infantry advancing. _I'm really going to die here_.

They were advancing, swords drawn. They were going to cut her to pieces. She was going to die.

A blur out of the corner of her eye had Rukia whirling around. Soifon appeared out of nowhere and jumped in front of her, taking out the nearest man with a sweep of her sword.

Turning around, the spy grabbed Rukia by the front of her uniform and yanked her up. Soifon's face was hard and unyielding, uncaring that she had struck down one of her own people.

"Get up and run, you stupid girl," Soifon hissed. "They're calling a retreat."

When Rukia remained frozen, Soifon shook her, hard. "Run, damn it! Run, run!"

The next thing she knew, Rukia was being dragged. With an iron strength, Soifon pulled her along, past the dead, past the blood-drenched ground and the broken spears, past the horror that was Battle, until they joined with the rest of the fleeing army.

"Retreat, retreat!" everyone was calling, wherever Rukia turned her head. Horses were screaming. People were dying, falling, stumbling, even as they ran away.

They retreated. The army, that had seemed so invincible only a few days ago, retreated, and Rukia couldn't even find it in herself to be glad that the North suffered defeat.

They didn't stop running until the canvas of tents came into view. Soifon dropped Rukia unceremoniously to the ground and the girl was sick all over the grass.

"Stop crying," Soifon demanded, and Rukia realized that she had been sobbing uncontrollably.

"Stop crying or I'll slap you!" said Soifon, grabbing Rukia up again and shaking her.

"That's enough!" someone said, and grabbed Soifon's shoulder. "Don't bully the new kid, Soifon. Go do something more useful."

It was Yoruichi Shihoin who had come to Rukia's rescue.

"Y-yes, Commander," said Soifon, suddenly meek. "I'm sorry." She bowed and left, leaving Rukia alone with the Commander.

Yoruichi Shihoin stared at Rukia with her calm, yellow eyes, and Rukia felt herself starting to calm as well. She stopped retching and wiped her face as best as she could.

"You," said the Commander. "Are you alright?"

Rukia shook her head, utterly ashamed at standing before the lady with snot and bile and tears covering her face.

"Sergeant Shiba died!" Rukia cried out. "He was shot while protecting me. It was my fault!"

Commander Shihoin stared at her for awhile, then turned her head and called out, "Hey! Kukaku! Come here!"

Another soldier from the Women's Division came over. She wore the badge of a lieutenant and had a wooden arm. Her face was hard and weary, as if she had seen too many battles, lost too many comrades. Rukia recognized the name and realized that she must be Ganju Shiba's sister.

Without hesitation, Rukia fell into a low bow in front of Kukaku Shiba.

"Please forgive me, Lieutenant," she said, her voice thin and shaking. "Sergeant Shiba died in battle."

"Yes, I know," said Kukaku. "I saw his body."

"But… he died to save me. I was in trouble and he came to help me. He took an arrow that would have hit _me_. It was my fault he died! I'm so sorry. I'm so sorry!"

"That's enough."

Rukia started to weep again and was disgusted by her own weakness. "But he died! I should have been stronger. I should have been more careful so that he didn't have to die. I'm so-"

"I said, that's enough!" Kukaku said fiercely, making Rukia look up in surprise. "Don't you dare apologize. My brother was a strong commander, and a good man. I don't care what he died for, but I'm sure it was a worthy cause. Be honored that he gave his life for you, kid."

"I… I…"

"What would he say if he saw you sniveling like this? Stop crying, you fool. Get stronger. Repay his sacrifice by living and getting stronger. Don't you dare die, in the future. Understand?"

"Y-yes, Ma'am," Rukia sniffled, wiping her face on her sleeve.

Kukaku sighed and reached into her pocket. She pulled out a small, waterproof pouch.

"Here," she said, pressing the bag into Rukia's hands. "I was going to give these to Ganju but never found the chance. They're sweet buns, the ones he likes best. You have them."

"Thank you, Ma'am," said Rukia, somehow feeling worse than before.

"What's your name?"

"Yuichi Shibata, Ma'am."

"Shibata, eh? I'll remember you."

Kukaku turned and left and so did Yoruichi Shihoin.

Rukia didn't remember much about the march from the rest point back to the encampment. She knew that she fainted from exhaustion about halfway and had to be carried on someone's back.

She didn't remember arriving back at the encampment, but when she woke up later that night, they told her that she had suffered from a fever. She had vague memories of nightmares and pain, but nothing more.

She remembered Sergeant Shiba's death, but she didn't cry anymore. She didn't feel ashamed or disgusted with herself. Instead she strengthened her resolve even more. She _needed _to get stronger.

He had died for her on that blood-stained ground. He had died in her arms and stained her hands red with blood, as if she herself had pierced his body with the arrow. She _was _honored. She _was _grateful. She would use the life he gave her to see her mission through to the end.

She would bring Ichigo Kurosaki down if it killed her.

But, she couldn't bring herself to eat the Sergeant's sweet buns, so she passed them on to the other members of her squad.

X

It was a cold, windy night. Lord Kuchiki had dismissed them from the war council quite late, and it was already dark. The generals and advisors who had been called were now dispersing slowly, heading their separate ways.

Toshiro Hitsugaya, however, was hanging around outside of Byakuya's house, shifting from foot to foot in the cold.

Jushiro Ukitake approached the boy, smiling.

"Hello, Mr. Strategist. Cold night, isn't it? Shouldn't you be heading home?"

He noticed that the Toshiro was yawning into his muffler. Those big blue eyes were blinking sleepily.

Jushiro felt a pang of sympathy for him. The child might be a genius, but staying up all hours of the night, hardly eating, and working twice as much as a child should was too much for a boy his age. Boys needed sleep to grow well. Toshiro's mind might be mature, but his body had its limits.

They heard a cane tapping as another man came up to them and greeted the boy by name. "Hitsugaya," said Kaname Tosen, the blind military advisor to the Warlord.

"Tosen," replied Toshiro, inclining his head respectfully, even though Tosen couldn't see.

"I wanted to congratulate you," said Tosen. "We won quite the victory against Kurosaki thanks to you."

"I'm just an advisor," the boy replied, hiding his face in the muffler again. "Our warriors are the ones who are truly victorious."

"Don't be so modest. It was you who guided them, and you did so in a way that I admire greatly. It was your tactics that forced the enemy to retreat at the 53rd, but in a way that did not devastate them. You planned it so they had the option to surrender. Our forces pressured them on three sides, not four, leaving them the option to retreat, but at the same time, showing them our true strength. Your ways are honorable. I hear there is talk of a new peace treaty, because of how much we intimidated them."

"I've always thought that spilling unnecessary blood was abominable," said Toshiro. "I work according to my beliefs."

"And I agree with you, wholeheartedly," replied Tosen.

A cheery little laugh had all three turning around to see Gin Ichimaru heading towards them.

"Now, that's no good," he said, smiling widely. "It's unnecessary bloodshed that keeps us all in work, am I right? Heh, you know it's true, 'Shiro. Why, if there was peace, what use would you be?"

"Leave him alone, Gin," Jushiro spoke harshly.

"Oh, I'm just kidding, just kidding. Say, Kaname, would you like me to walk you home? It's quite dark out, you know! You could get robbed."

Jushiro watched the other two men walk off and sighed. His breath came out in a white puff.

"Toshiro, you look about ready to fall over," he said. "You've already conquered an army today. I'm sure Lord Kuchiki wouldn't begrudge you some rest. You should go on home."

"I'm fine," the boy said stubbornly, wiping miserably at his red nose. "I need to wait for my escort."

"Escort?"

The boy looked a bit embarrassed. "It's not that I need one, of course. I can walk back fine on my own. It's just that Granny told me never to walk alone at night. I'm just honoring her wishes."

"Oh, is that it? I understand. But your man seems to be late."

"Yeah. He's late pretty often."

Toshiro yawned again. Jushiro could see him shivering under the heavy cloak. Being out in the cold while exhausted couldn't be good for a young boy's health.

"Well, why don't we start walking?" Jushiro offered. "I'll walk with you. If we're headed towards your home, we'll run into your escort anyway, right?"

"I don't want to trouble you," mumbled Toshiro.

"It's no trouble at all! In fact, I really enjoy nighttime walks. Let's go."

They headed out onto the road, Toshiro's cold hand clasped in Jushiro's larger one. A passerby might have thought that they were father and son.

Toshiro led the way, head drooping occasionally, as if falling asleep. When he stumbled for the third time, Jushiro bent down and hefted the boy onto his back.

"Which way?" he asked, and felt Toshiro nudge him to the left. He walked on, and soon felt the boy drop his head onto his shoulder and start to snore. Jushiro chuckled.

"You know," he whispered as he walked, "I used to do this all the time when Lady Rukia was a child. She'd get way too tired, just like you, and I'd have to carry her back to her rooms. Her sister was still alive then…"

Jushiro broke off and stopped in his tracks. He felt an odd tingling sensation, as if he was being watched. Slowly, he turned around, but there was no one there.

"Young Master! Young Master!" someone called, and Jushiro turned back to see the errant escort running towards them, flushed and panting. The lantern he held was sending light bouncing all over the road. "Please forgive me! I am late again."

"Ah, there you are!" said Jushiro pleasantly. "We've been waiting for you, Mr. Escort. Here, please make sure Mr. Hitsugaya gets home safely."

Slowly, he lowered Toshiro to the ground and handed him over to the escort. Waving goodbye, Jushiro headed home in the opposite direction. Even as he left, he turned around once or twice, just to make sure he wasn't being followed.

He saw no one.

After the white-haired man was gone, two dark figures stepped out from an alleyway.

"So, what do you think, Mr. Strategist?" came the drawling voice of Gin Ichimaru.

"Hm," said his companion, Sosuke Aizen. He smiled. "So that's the brat who defeated my battle plan. I didn't expect him to be so young."

"Well, the packaging may be small," said Ichimaru, his smile a leering gash in the moonlight. "But Toshiro Hitsugaya is quite formidable. Perfect, don't you think?"

"Oh, yes," replied Aizen. "For our purposes, he is indeed quite perfect."

X

Thank you all so much for reading! I'm really really happy that people are liking my fic. Please, please review and tell me what you think!

_Edit for clarification: OK, so this was apparently confusing people. I got some questions as to why Ichigo didn't recognize Rukia from the portrait, or why Rukia didn't recognize herself. I know in the anime, people's pictures look exactly like them. But considering Edo-period art or traditional Chinese art, portraits were actually pretty stylized. I had that in mind when I wrote about Rukia's painting. I was also hinting that it was an idealized version of her (pale, slim, tall, etc), as sometimes painters would exaggerate features to flatter their employers. _


	4. Chapter 4

Disclaimer: I don't own Bleach or any Bleach characters. This fanfiction is for entertainment purposes only and no profit is being made.

Warnings: This fic will contain violence, gore, bad language, sex, a relationship that's abusive on both sides, and other mature themes. The main pairings are Rukia/Ichigo and Rukia/Byakuya. *For this chapter, there will be mentions of torture and mutilation!*

….

Chapter 4:

The charcoal scratched against the cloth. It smudged Rukia's fingers black, streaking her face as well when she reached up to push her hair out of the way. She dragged the blackened stick over her makeshift canvas, creating the outlines of an armory, a fence, watchtowers, the shape of the encampment.

High up in her perch, she sketched out a map on a yard of stolen cloth. Rukia wasn't like Byakuya; she couldn't look down at the terrain and memorize it in her head. She needed a physical map, so that she could place it into Byakuya's hands when her work was done.

She sighed and leaned back against the tree trunk. Her eyes hurt from peering so hard into the distance. The charcoal crumbled between her fingers and fell to the ground in a dusky sprinkle.

She folded the cloth up in a roll and slipped it into her clothes. The bell rang for the evening meal and she climbed down from the tree. She ate with the others, she drank, she laughed when they laughed. She picked up her weapons when they did and trained when they did.

But all the time, she still felt the heat on her face, the warmth of the fire that cremated her Sergeant. She had watched when they put his body, covered with holes, into the coffin. She had watched as the coffin burned on the pyre, her vision blurring into an orange and red mess when tears filled her eyes.

She missed him. They had replaced the Sergeant with someone else. They had replaced the dead squad members with new recruits, but it wasn't the same.

Ganju Shiba was gone. Hanataro was gone too.

The poor boy hadn't died, but he had lost his leg. The last she'd seen of him was when he was recovering, sweating and pale as a sheet as he lay on his cot. She had stood over him and touched his face. He had tried to smile.

"Well, it looks like I'm going home," he had said, unable to manage much more than a whisper.

He wouldn't be able to work much, and wooden legs cost money. The boy would have to rely on his already poor family. There would be a small pension, but the steady flow of cash from his soldiering days would be gone. He would never fight again.

In the end, she pressed Hisana's jade pendant into his trembling hand. The milky coolness of the stone was a healthy contrast to his dry, chapped skin. It wasn't enough, of course, but it would bring him a few handfuls of coins. He had cried a few tears in his helplessness, and she had wiped them away for him.

At night, Rukia couldn't sleep, though she was exhausted. Her mind was buzzing with thoughts that wouldn't be put to rest, though her body was aching from the strain of her training. She ached, both inside and out.

While the others snored in their beds, she snuck out, though she knew she would be in trouble if she were caught.

She sighed as she stepped into the night. The air was cool and dry and felt good against her eyes, which were swollen red from weeping.

At the tree that she had grown accustomed to calling her own, she removed her heavy outer clothing and laid them at the roots. It was a warm night for winter, and she climbed up until she was nestled among branches and leaves.

She could see the watchtowers from up there, the little campfires that men warmed their hands over, the distant lights. She could see the dark outlines of mountains in the distance, the bones of the earth.

She wondered, as the tree swayed her back and forth, if she could have saved the Sergeant, had she had been quicker, stronger. She wondered if she had been less wild in her childhood, whether Hisana would have died with so many white hairs. She wondered if any of her engagements had actually been carried out, whether she would actually be happily married. If only, if only, the wind sang.

Rukia didn't realize that she had dozed off until she shifted and started to slip.

Eyes snapping open, she grabbed at whatever she could reach and scraped her hands on the bark. Branches broke as she kicked at them with her feet.

To her horror, her entire body started falling and a scream fought its way out of her throat. Down she went, hurtling through the foliage, scratching her arms and hands bloody. The tree wasn't the highest she'd ever climbed, but she was still high enough to break something.

A ripping sound filled the air and her fall was stopped with a jerk.

"Ow!"

She twisted around and saw that part of her kimono had caught onto the branch, effectively stopping her fall. Unfortunately, she was now stuck in a rather undignified position, limbs flailing in the air and hair caught up in brambles.

"Damn it."

She squinted at the ground, trying to determine how much distance there was, trying to figure out how hurt she would get if she just let go. Cursing her own stupidity and the darkness, she reached upwards for another branch and tried to pull herself upright, but gasped when the strain only made her kimono tear even more. She dropped another few feet and cried out shrilly.

"Stop struggling," someone said, and she froze. The voice was coming from below, calm compared to her own frantic breathing. "You'll only fall faster."

"Wh-who's there?" she whispered.

"Just let go," said the voice.

She didn't get a chance to either comply or refuse, as her hands gave out at that moment. She plummeted, headfirst toward the ground, a big chunk ripped out of her kimono.

Without the time to draw enough breath to scream, she closed her eyes instead and waited for the impact.

But it never came, as someone caught her in both arms. Before she could even register what happened, she was pushed upright and set on her feet. She swayed, dizzy, but forced herself to look up.

She went still when she recognized that distinctive orange hair. The Warlord himself was the one who caught her, and her cheeks burned when she remembered how they had last met. Instinctively, she covered the big tear in her clothes with her hands.

There was a servant standing meekly behind him, carrying a lantern. The yellow light cast shadows on his face and made his expression seem even harder, more intense.

He was staring at her.

"Do I know you?" he demanded, and she felt a thrill of fear when she realized that she had her hair still bound up and she had hidden her uniform under the roots of the tree, not three feet away from where they stood. Thank goodness there was no one else here to recognize her.

"Your Highness, I…"

"Don't move," interrupted Kurosaki. He reached out and grabbed the frayed end of her scarf, tugging hard until it came away.

Her hair came tumbling down, kissing her neck and shoulders as it fell to her waist. She remained frozen, barely daring to breathe.

"It's you!" he said. "Kiyone, was it? What were you doing up there?"

He took a step closer to her but she stood her ground, unable to look away for some reason.

He looked different, somehow. He seemed quieter, and a bit defeated. When she had seen him sitting among his friends that night, hands so casually laid on the armrests of his throne, he had the satisfied look of a contented man. Now, he seemed less so, as if the Northern army had cut away his pride along with his defenses at the 53rd.

"Have you been crying?" he asked, peering down at her sore, red eyes.

Of course, she wanted to answer. Wouldn't you cry if someone you trusted, someone you looked up to, were killed protecting you?

"What were you doing up in that tree? Were you hiding from someone? Why were you crying? Has someone mistreated you, little girl?"

She bristled at that. Little girls don't become soldiers. Little girls don't disguise themselves as men and infiltrate an enemy camp. Little girls don't stain their hands with the blood of their commanding officer and scream their throats raw afterwards for the pain of it. At least, little girls don't do these things and remain little girls for long.

"As if I would let them!" she flared up, forgetting to be respectful.

The corner of his lip turned upwards at her outburst. "If you say so, Miss. You're certainly bold enough, considering the tone you're using with me."

"Forgive me," she said, without much sincerity. She dropped into a low bow as he swept away.

Did _he_ cry, she thought nastily, when they brought him the news that he had lost the greatest, richest province in the land, along with a letter demanding his surrender?

X

Ichigo Kurosaki continued his nighttime walk, navigating through the outskirts of the encampment by the bobbling light of the lantern.

"Who climbs trees in the middle of the night?" he murmured. "In fact, what kind of girl climbs trees anyway? Strange, isn't it?"

"Yes, Your Highness," his servant said dutifully.

Frowning, Ichigo rubbed his fingers together, remembering the feel of her hand. He had grabbed the fingers on her left hand as she fell and her hair had brushed against his face, filling his nostrils with her scent. She had smelled of campfire smoke, sweat, grease, and something vaguely flowery. _Odd_, he thought. There was something decidedly _off _about Kiyone, about the way she smelled, the way she felt. If she really was a courtesan, then why…?

"Your Highness! Your Highness!" someone called. He could see the dancing flame of another lantern as the messenger came his way. He groaned softly. He had been so close to escaping.

"Please, Your Highness! General Kyoraku has been asking for you all day! He says it's urgent that he meets with you!"

"Tell him it's late and I want to sleep. Tell him I need more time to lick my wounds before he bores me to death with one of his lectures."

"I'm afraid that's impossible, Your Highness. He's put himself in your quarters and refuses to leave! He's been there for hours!"

He sighed, watching the whiteness of his breath unfurling. He rubbed the back of his neck. "Good grief. There's just no avoiding the old geezer."

His footsteps were short and brisk on his way back. His hands were curled into fists, as if he were bracing himself for something utterly unpleasant.

"General," Ichigo greeted curtly, when he arrived at his private study.

"Well, good evening," drawled Shunsui Kyoraku. "It's good to finally see you, Ichigo. I helped myself to some of your tea while I waited, hope you don't mind."

The general was reclining on the Warlord's own seat, straw hat placed obstinately on his desk. There was a pot of tea and two cups laid out, and from the smell of it, it had been one of the more expensive types in Ichigo's cupboard.

The Warlord gritted his teeth. Kyoraku was the only one of his subordinates that could get away with calling him by his first name. He was the only one who could walk into Ichigo's study, touch things without permission, and sit in his chair without fear of punishment.

Ichigo glanced to Kyoraku's right, where Sosuke Aizen was sitting, smiling serenely as always.

"And good evening to you, Mr. Strategist," Ichigo said. "Are you here to lecture me as well?"

"No, no," replied the man, eyes lowered, lips curved upwards into a pleasant smile. "I simply stopped by to offer the General some company while he waited. I would never dream of lecturing you, Your Highness."

He stood and dipped into a bow, as was proper.

"Where were you at this time of night, Ichigo? I'd almost think that you were deliberately trying to avoid me." Kyoraku cut in, before Aizen could finish his bow.

"Taking a walk," the Warlord replied. "Get out of my chair."

"To avoid me?" said Kyoraku, not moving an inch. "That hurts my feelings, you know. I thought I was your favorite teacher. You never used to avoid me in the old days."

"Maybe it's because I know what you're going to say and I don't want to hear it!" Ichigo snapped, and stepped past Aizen to stand at the window.

"Oh, really? You know what I'm about to say? My, my, apparently, you know me better than I know myself. Enlighten me, dear Ichigo, on what I'm about to say."

"Quit the act. You want to bring up the peace treaty again, don't you?"

Kyoraku chuckled lightly and brought the teacup to his lips. "It's the perfect time for it, don't you think? We lost the 53rd and the 60th, despite our best efforts. A peace treaty's better than the surrender they're demanding. Or a coup from your own people, because you can't afford to pay for this war without raising taxes yet again."

"Coward!" spat Ichigo. "Where is your courage? This wasn't our first defeat and it certainly wasn't our worst."

"But with your help, it can be our last. Without the 53rd-"

In response, the Warlord turned around and slammed his fist into the desk. The cup rattled and tea sloshed over the rim, making a little green puddle on the desktop.

"Do you mean to tell me that I'm destroyed?" he said furiously, teeth bared like a dog being baited. "That the 53rd was my crutch, old man, and that I'm helpless without it? Thank Heavens that my father didn't live long enough to see his closest friend become such a coward. Do you miss your home and your warm bed, is that it? Do you think we're finished, just because you say so? We are _not _done here! We won't be done until I have all the Southern provinces under my thumb!"

Kyoraku had barely looked up at this outburst. He silently sipped his tea, head lowered so that his eyes were in shadow, ignoring Ichigo's harsh panting.

"My, my" he said softly.

In one quick motion, Kyoraku reached out across the desk and grabbed Ichigo's wrist. The youth grunted as his hand was squeezed in a punishing grip.

Slowly, Kyoraku rose to his feet. Slowly, he met the Warlord's eyes. There was no trace of humor left in the general's face.

"I'll tell you the truth," he said, in a voice of deadly calm. "You are far from destroyed. You are young and powerful and charismatic. _I _am far from destroyed. The both of us have enough strength to make this war last a hundred years if we wish, and bring everyone to their knees before us. We could turn the world to ashes."

"You're hurting me," Ichigo gasped, staring up at his general with wide eyes. His old teacher towered over him, exuding a quiet power that was magnificent and terrible at the same time. He felt like a boy again, under that gaze.

With his other hand, Kyoraku snatched up the document that outlined the peace treaty. He crushed it in his hand, smearing the ink, tearing the paper.

"You see?" he said, holding the ruined treaty before Ichigo's face. "I don't need this. You need it even less than I do. I could burn it up, rip it to shreds, and neither of us would be worse off for it. But it's the people who will suffer. We can conquer the world, but we'll bring our own people down with the enemy. They'll starve and burn and weep, and your children will end up inheriting a kingdom of ashes. Winning a war is no victory if your people suffer. I can tell you now, there will never be victory if you continue fighting. _This_ is your victory."

He shook the ruined paper in Ichigo's face.

Ichigo frowned, but the anger was gone from his eyes. He pulled his arm free and turned away from Kyoraku.

"No peace treaty," he said, softly but firmly.

"Why?" Kyoraku demanded. "Do you hate peace that much?"

"No. How can I hate something I've never known?"

He stared at the candles in their ceramic holders. They had nearly burned themselves into stubs while Kyoraku was waiting for him. The wax had pooled into a dark red puddle, red like blood, red like the brooch in his sister's hair.

His lips felt dry as he parted them to speak. "I don't hate peace. I _desire _it. I want it so much I dream of it, every night. It's something I've never tasted before, but I'm sure it's sweet, the sweetest thing in the world."

He turned around and glared at Kyoraku.

"Don't patronize me, old man. I've lived among the plague-ridden and the hungry ever since I was a baby! I know suffering. I _have _suffered. Don't you think I want to stop that? Don't you think I want to see home again? See my sisters?"

'Then why, Ichigo, won't you treat with Byakuya Kuchiki? He and his advisors are all reasonable men. Surely, for the sake of peace, territorial disputes are-"

"Because I know that even if we both sign the peace treaty, it wouldn't really be peace."

Kyoraku stopped speaking.

The candlelight was flickering now. There was a wind rising on the outside, making the wooden house creak. The cold was seeping in through the cracks.

Ichigo held his wrist up to the dying firelight. The marks of Kyoraku's fingers were still there, vivid and angry on his skin.

"General Kyoraku, what do you do if you break your arm?"

"I'm not sure I understand."

"You can bandage it with something flimsy. You can stick needles in the right places, to dull the pain. You can drain it if it becomes infected, or cover it with a cold compress to stop the swelling. Even take sleeping medicine, so you won't feel it. But in the end, what do these things accomplish? Nothing, really. Your arm is still broken."

Ichigo stepped closer and plucked the crumbled treaty from Kyoraku's hands. He held it to the candles, watching as the crisp paper lit and curled up into a burning mess.

"That's what this treaty is," he continued. "A bandage. Sleeping medicine. A poultice. It patches things up for awhile, but that's it. Kyoraku, when your arm breaks, you do the most painful thing possible: twist the bones back into place. Only then, will it heal right. Anything less than that, and your arm will fail you, again and again.

"That's why I won't treat with Byakuya Kuchiki, or his nest of snakes. My father, rest in peace, was a fool for even trying. Treaties don't last. Armistices don't last. They only prolong the war and, as you know, prolong suffering. The bones need to be set. The world needs to be put right again. These warring provinces will be forever at each others' throats if we don't stop them. I don't seek glory with this war, I seek control. These people need a king."

Kyoraku chuckled. "Fool."

"What did you say?" Ichigo demanded, bristling.

"Fool. Your people don't want a king. In fact, some of them want your head on a spike."

Furious, the Warlord slammed both hands onto the desk. "How dare you! I-!"

"I don't dare. I would never dare. But _they _do. It's because they're tired, Ichigo. They want their homes back. They want the military to leave their ports alone. They want to sleep at night without wondering which army will come to pillage them in the morning, whether their grain will be taken by Kuchiki or Kurosaki."

"The people won't abandon me! They are not so faithless!"

"Some of them already have. They can't eat faith." Kyoraku sighed and folded his arms. He sank back into the chair, looking weary. "I'm tired of this conversation, Ichigo. Let me make it easier for you to decide. Meet with the Southerners to discuss the treaty, or you won't have me as a general anymore."

"That's treason!" shouted Ichigo.

"To retire is not treason. I love you like a son, but I won't stay and watch you destroy this land in your attempt to be king." With a sigh, Kyoraku stood. He plucked his straw hat from the tabletop and placed it on his head. He didn't bow as he walked past the Warlord. He didn't even meet Ichigo's eyes.

"Don't you dare turn your back on me! It's treason if I say it is, Kyoraku!"

The general didn't answer. He didn't turn around, even when Ichigo swore and threatened, pounding his fists into the wall. Kyoraku's hand was at the doorframe when Ichigo finally gave in.

"Enough," the Warlord said. It was the quiet defeat in his voice that made Kyoraku turn and look at him. "As always, you ask too much of me."

"As always," Kyoraku agreed softly. His eyes glittered in the dim light, bright as flame.

Ichigo looked to Aizen, who hadn't said a word throughout their whole exchange. The man was sitting quietly in the same posture as before, as if nothing had changed.

"And what do you think, Mr. Strategist?" Ichigo asked.

Aizen looked up and smiled, eyes kind, as always. "As always, I agree with you, Your Highness. But General Kyoraku brings up some interesting points as well. And, after all, it's not everyday that a general is willing to risk his life and reputation just to change Your Highness' mind. It would seem as if he's staking his own life on the success of this treaty. How dangerous."

He looked up at Kyoraku, the light reflecting off his spectacles so that his expression was half-hidden.

"I suppose if you go through with it, Lord Kurosaki," said Aizen, "you wouldbe showing a tremendous amount of goodwill and trust in our enemies. It would be the honorable thing to do, that's for sure. Lord Kuchiki would be a heartless villain indeed, if he were to refuse to do the same."

Ichigo sighed. "Then, I will go and meet with Byakuya Kuchiki. Whatever it takes, I will see this peace treaty signed and carried out. Stay, Kyoraku. I can't lose you."

"That is a good decision," Kyoraku said, smiling warmly. He inclined his head slightly in an imitation of the bow that he had refused to give earlier.

He chuckled, suddenly. "My, my, and just in time, too! Little Toshiro Hitsugaya's plans have put us all in quite a bind. Quite the dangerous one, isn't he?"

The Warlord cracked a smile. The tension in his face seeped away when he heard Kyoraku's laugh, as if the normalcy of that sound drained away their earlier animosity.

"Dangerous?" said Ichigo. "Ugh, the brat's downright devious. I suppose I'll have to meet with Hitsugaya too, if I'm to discuss a peace treaty. I've only met him once but I already can't stand him. Hell, I wish I could have his tongue on a platter, just so he wouldn't be able to whisper in Kuchiki's ear anymore."

Aizen smiled again. His own tongue darted out and licked his lips, as if he were tasting the air. "Strong words, Your Highness," he whispered.

"Very well, then!" Kyoraku declared, clapping his hands together. "I shall retire now. In the morning, I will make the arrangements to send an envoy."

"Good," said Ichigo. "Oh, and one more thing," he added, just as Kyoraku was about to leave. "Do me a favor, won't you? You seem to be good friends with the Madam in charge of entertainment. Ask her if she knows of a "Miss Kiyone" in her employment."

"Miss Kiyone? Is this your new paramour?"

"No. Just… someone I'm curious about."

"As you wish. Good night, Ichigo."

As Kyoraku left the room, followed shortly by Aizen, Ichigo turned to stare out the window. He rubbed his fingers together again.

_Calluses_, he recalled. There had been calluses on that girl's hands. Courtesans always had soft hands, didn't they? They weren't allowed to do chores or anything common, just so their hands could remain soft when they bathed or massaged their customers.

Kiyone had smelled of smoke, sweat, and grime. Unthinkable, for a courtesan, as they bathed themselves in floral-scented water twice a day. And the smell on Kiyone's clothes and hair had been strong and lingering, not just the slightly sweaty tang from a few hours of tree climbing. It was the musk of someone who didn't bathe all that often.

Odd, how underneath all that, Ichigo could still detect the slightest hint of flowery perfume, the same scent she wore that night when she came to his bedroom. Ichigo knew that unless you washed vigorously, strong perfume could linger for days. So, not only had she failed to wash her hair since that night, she also hadn't worn any new scent since then. Impossible, for a courtesan.

Then, there was the way she spoke. There was a certain bite to her voice that pleasure girls were trained not to have. She spoke without lowering her eyes, without toning down her voice so that it soft and sweet.

Of course, the voice and the calluses could have been explained by inexperience. Kiyone might have been an uncouth country girl before the Madam had employed her. But for some reason, Ichigo had the feeling that beneath the exterior, the girl was cultured, like someone of good breeding. Though loud and obstinate, her manners were perfect when she chose to use them. She bowed as if she had been plucked straight from a royal court.

"It might be nothing," he whispered to himself. "There might be a perfectly good explanation."

But still, he hated mysteries. This girl was strange and it bothered him more than it should for some reason. Her eyes were enchanting, but she wasn't beautiful in the traditional sense, so why the fixation?

X

"Are you stalking me?" Kyoraku said softly, stopping in his tracks. He had walked out with Aizen, but the other man had left. Yet, he heard the unmistakable sound of soft footsteps following him. He turned around in the lamp-lit hallway, peering at a darkened corner. "Miss Inoue?"

A second later, she timidly appeared from her hiding place. The silvery white of her kimono made her a ghostly figure in the dark hallway. Even at such a late hour, her eyes were lined with kohl and her lips were painted pink.

"Oh! I-I beg your pardon," Orihime Inoue stammered, dipping into a graceful bow. "I didn't mean to um… well you see, I…"

"It's alright," Kyoraku said gently. He stepped closer to her, slowly enough so that she wouldn't be intimidated. "Say what's on your mind."

She laughed nervously, wringing her hands together, looking around to see that they were alone. Her voice came out in a timid squeak. "General Kyoraku, I… well, I didn't mean to spy or eavesdrop or anything like that, sir, but I noticed that you were meeting with His Highness just now. I was wondering… I mean, I haven't seen him at all for the past few days, and…"

"You were wondering if he's in the mood for you? If he would like for you to visit?"

"Y-yes! That's exactly it." The girl blushed and lowered her eyes.

"I see. Well, I'm sorry to say so, Miss Inoue, but Ichigo isn't likely to send for you anytime soon. He is very preoccupied."

"Oh. I-I see. Thank you, General Kyoraku." She looked dejected as she bowed to him in farewell. Her head hung low as she turned to walk away, and she looked terribly lonely.

"Miss Inoue," he called after her, and she stopped in her tracks but didn't turn around. He suspected she didn't want him to see the tears in her eyes. "Maybe it's for the best. You know, when he first asked me to send for you, I advised you to refuse him."

"Yes, but I respectfully declined that advice," she said, her voice somewhat muffled.

"Like I said, maybe it's for the best that he doesn't see you anymore. He likes pretty women, but he doesn't love them. You'll only have your heart broken if you feel too much for him. You're young, Miss Inoue. There's no need to suffer like this. Pining after him will do you no good."

She was silent for a while, but he saw her stiffen. Her shoulders lost their dejected slump and her hands tightened into fists.

"I'm not suffering," she said, "and I don't _pine _over anyone. There's nothing more useless than pining." She turned her face to look at him and Kyoraku was surprised by the fire in her eyes, the hardness in her voice.

"Oh?" said Kyoraku. "Then I was mistaken? You're not in love with him after all?"

"Not really, no."

"Then why are you so eager to be with him? Why do you look so lost without him?" He took another step closer to her, peering into her face. She looked less timid now, less like the pretty, meek thing that had sat at the Warlord's feet like a kitten.

"Eh, Miss Inoue? Is it for the money? The security? I'm sure you're far too honorable to be sleeping with a man for things like that."

"Too honorable?" said Orihime, lip twisting into a most uncharacteristic sneer. "Hah!" she spat. "There's not much room for honor in a poor woman's life."

"Is being a poor woman your excuse for behaving badly?"

She stepped up to him, fearlessly, eyes blazing. "I wonder, General Kyoraku, if you know at all what it's like to be a woman in this world. You, who can rise as high as you wish, so comfortable in your greatness!"

Kyoraku stared. He never would have expected such an outburst from her, who was always so quiet and demure. She was panting now, her lovely breasts heaving with each breath. Her cheeks were a bright pink.

"Did you know that a woman can learn to read better than a man, but she can never become a government official, or a teacher, or a physician, because only men are allowed that? If her husband is any of these things, she can advise him, but she won't become great on her own. A woman can be an artist, but no one would allow her to design a bridge or a house. A woman can be a writer, but her books will never be published and put in libraries."

"A woman," she said, looking down sadly, "can be a performer. She can be a dancer, a singer, _anything_, but she will never perform in the great theaters. Only men sing and dance on a grand stage, in front of hundreds. Women like me are only used for cheap entertainment. I know I'm better than all other the girls here, but I only get paid three copper coins for each dance, simply because I _can_ rise no higher than this.

What can a woman do? She can only work in her father's shop. I can only be known as 'the daughter of a tattoo artist.' Well, I don't want that. I want my own house, my own life, my own everything. What's wrong with sleeping with Lord Kurosaki for money? Money buys things."

She held up her wrist for him to see. The gold bracelet glittered in the dim light.

"See this? He gave it to me. It's _mine. I _earned it. I can trade it for cash right away. If he pays me enough, I'll soon have money for a loft somewhere. More cash, and I'll be able to buy a horse. Then, I'll ride far away form here and never look back, because I hate it here."

Kyoraku sighed. He took his hat down and scratched his head. "My, my, what a load of burdens you've placed on yourself, Miss Inoue. If you hate it here so much, you can always marry someone who'll take you away. Surely, a girl like you would have no problems finding a willing husband."

She laughed mirthlessly at that. "Marrying for money and security? I would far prefer being a courtesan than a wife, because a wife's house is actually her husband's house, and she must stay with him forever. As I am now, I can leave when I've finally collected enough for my house, and it will always be _my _house. I don't need a husband to take me away, because I can take myself away."

"Now, I'm sure men aren't all that bad," Kyoraku replied, smiling. "In any case, you should still stay away from Ichigo Kurosaki. He's no good for you. And, after all, if you're only trading sex for money, then it should make no difference to you who your partner is, hmm?"

He reached out to touch her hair, but she recoiled. Quick as a flash, she pulled out a hairpin to reveal that it was a tiny dagger, sharp as a needle. She stuck his hand with it and drew blood.

"Careful, Shunsui Kyoraku," she said, glaring at him. "Don't think of taking advantage of me. I may be His Highness' mistress, but I'm no whore."

"My, how fierce!" said Kyoraku, holding his hand up so the blood dripped down his fingers. He chuckled, as if he didn't feel it at all. "You know, attacking a general is a serious offense. I could have you arrested for this."

"Do it!" she challenged, standing on her toes so she could look straight into his eyes. When he failed to say or do anything more, she turned on her heel and walked away.

X

The very next night at Byakuya Kuchiki's side of the battlefield, Nanao Ise pressed a secret letter into Jushiro's hands. The war council had just ended and the other officers were milling around, chatting and leaving one by one.

"It just arrived," she said, a little breathless. " The messenger was trustworthy, so it hasn't been opened yet, I'm sure of it."

"Thank you, my dear," he murmured, and tore it open with shaking hands. He scanned it over quickly, devouring the brief letter with his eyes.

"Are you mad?" she hissed, pushing him closer to the wall, shielding the letter from view with her body. "What do you think you're doing, reading that in a public place like this? If anyone finds out, we'll lose our heads!"

But he was already crumpling the paper up in his hands, closing a tight fist over it. He let his breath out in a relieved sigh and tilted his head back against the wall.

"Thank Heavens," he whispered. "It's done. He's convinced Kurosaki to petition for peace. It'll probably be a few more days before the Northerners officially contact Byakuya, but it's done."

"Commander Ukitake," she replied sternly. "You must burn that letter. No matter how good your intentions are, corresponding with the enemy can still be seen as treason."

"Of course, Nanao. You're right. But soon, we won't need to be so secretive anymore. Soon, this war will end. Kurosaki is convinced, and now I need to do my part. I have no doubts that Byakuya will agree as well."

Months of secret planning had finally paid off. Leaking information to the enemy or keeping enemy information a secret were both crimes punishable by death, but Jushiro had gladly dangled his neck over the block for the sake of peace. Letters, quickly burned or shredded after reading, had passed frequently between him and his secret Northern ally. Messengers were never hired twice, and the letters were always sent to Nanao Ise instead of directly to Jushiro.

They had planned it so there would be the least amount of bloodshed, so that Kurosaki would benefit most from a peace declaration. They had planned it so that Toshiro Hitsugaya's battle tactics would be executed at exactly the right moment, so that Kurosaki would be pressed for resources.

But in his quiet triumph, Jushiro failed to notice that Toshiro himself was being led away by Gin Ichimaru at that moment. In his hurry to stick the letter into the nearest brazier, Jushiro failed to notice that the boy's escort had been late yet again, and that Ichimaru was smiling as he put hand on Toshiro's shivering shoulder and whispered, "Oh dear, Toshiro, you look half frozen! Come to my house and stay for a cup of hot tea, and I'll have my own escort send you home later."

Jushiro, too wrapped up in his own intrigues, failed to even think that he and Nanao were not the only schemers in Byakuya's camp. It hadn't even occurred to him that there were other men who dared the executioner's axe by dealing with the enemy, but for far less noble reasons, pretenders, ambitious men who had their eyes on far more than a military promotion.

He didn't realize that Gin Ichimaru would also have noticed that Toshiro was cold and tired, exhausted beyond what a boy could handle, that he had a runny nose and sore head, and only wanted to go home and snuggle into something warm. He didn't realize that Ichimaru would reach out and take advantage of a child trapped in a world of men.

"But I have to wait for my escort," Toshiro protested weakly through numb lips, as Gin Ichimaru wrapped an arm around him and led him towards somewhere unfamiliar.

"Oh, don't worry! Haha, I'm not kidnapping you, my dear boy. Kaname here is coming with us, and Commander Ukitake will be joining us soon."

"O-oh. Well, I guess if Commander Ukitake's coming, then it's alright," Toshiro murmured, comforted by the fact that Kaname Tosen was walking on his other side. He trusted Kaname Tosen, who had always been polite to him.

X

"So, it's all going to be over soon," Rukia thought to herself. She stared up at the shifting shadows on the ceiling, the dust and cracks illuminated by the moonlight.

"Peace," she said aloud, whispering the word out like a prayer.

Everyone was talking about it. Days ago, there was an announcement of a temporary armistice. Lord Kurosaki had plans to petition for peace. He was going to meet with Byakuya Kuchiki and draw up a new peace treaty, one to replace his father's failure ten years ago. Byakuya had agreed and the date was set. A temporary armistice had been called in the meantime.

Amazing, that her adventure seemed to be over before it really began.

If this treaty went through, then both armies would withdraw. The soldiers would all go home. _She _would have no choice but to go home.

Rukia sighed and drew her blankets closer to her chin. It was cold and the sheets were scratchy. She wondered if her own bed at Byakuya's house would still feel the same.

She wondered if he would be angry or relieved when he saw her again.

"Home," she whispered. It galled her that she hadn't yet accomplished anything, that her plan to wrest the power away from Ichigo Kurosaki with her own hands had come to nothing. Yet, at the same time, there was that tiny ache in her heart: homesickness.

Sergeant Shiba was dead and Hanataro was gone. She had tasted enough of war and death. The idea of going home again, to be among her friends and family, felt welcoming. She could leave her guilt and pain behind on this battlefield, and forget it all happened.

She closed her eyes then, and dreamed.

She dreamed that she was at her brother's house, and that she was serving him tea. She dreamed that he had undone his hair and that it lay over his shoulders like silk.

The scent of the charcoal fire was soothing in her dream. The steam from the water caressed her cheeks as she poured, careful not to splash. She dreamed that she raised the finished cup to him, bowing her head in respect.

"Thank you, Hisana," he said in her dream, and she was angry.

"My name is Rukia!" she cried out. "Rukia, Rukia, Rukia!"

But no matter how many times she said it, he didn't seem to understand. Byakuya simply sipped his tea, looking at her through half-lidded eyes.

"Of course you're Hisana. You look like Hisana. You are wearing her clothes. You are pouring me tea, just as she used to. You are Hisana."

"Rukia! Rukia! Rukia!" she chanted uselessly. In her dream, she drew Ichigo Kurosaki's mighty sword, Zangetsu.

"You see?" she cried. "Could Hisana have taken this from him? Could Hisana have brought this back to you? Now you can wield it, and you will be the most powerful Warlord in the world."

He shook his head. "No, that is not enough. If you truly want to prove that you are not Hisana, you must bring me the head of Ichigo Kurosaki. You must kill him."

In her frustration, she leapt at him and embraced him. She tried to kiss him, but his lips tasted like air and he melted away from her. The silk of his yukata slipped from her fingers.

She woke up to a day full of excited chatter. Over breakfast porridge, men talked about going home and seeing their families. Their excitement got her excited as well, and though the new Sergeant scolded them for being fanciful, she couldn't help but be eager to go home again.

She wanted to see her brother again.

Rukia was quite unprepared for the chaos that erupted a few days later, when all hell broke loose.

X

Byakuya Kuchiki stood before Hisana's shrine, hands held in prayer. It was his own personal shrine, located in his bedchamber. A small portrait of her smiled up at him from where it stood on the shelf.

After a long time, he opened his eyes and sighed softly. Despite his calm exterior, he was in turmoil over Rukia's disappearance. No news had come of her, even though he sent his men to search far and wide

He wasn't worried that she had been kidnapped, of course. On the day she disappeared, her sword had also been found missing. A horse from the stable was also gone. There was no doubt in his mind that she had gone on some foolish escapade of her own free will.

What bothered him was that she hadn't been found yet. Even if she had decided to run away on some adventure, his ruthlessly efficient guards would have caught up to her by now, and brought her back. Where could she possibly be, that she escaped them, even now? Was she safe?

"I'm sorry, Hisana," he whispered, breaking the stillness of the chamber. "I tried to protect her in every possible way, but in the end, I couldn't protect her from herself."

He bowed his head before the portrait of his smiling wife. There was a pain in his chest from missing her so much.

"Kurosaki wants to make a peace treaty," he continued. "He wants to meet with me on neutral territory. I don't know if I can trust him. Ukitake says I should, but I don't know. What should I do?"

He smiled wistfully at the painted face. "I know what you would say if you were here. You've always believed that everyone is good, deep down inside, even Kurosaki. You would tell me to take that chance and trust him."

He sighed again and rubbed his eyes. It was late and he wanted to sleep, but he had letters to write that couldn't wait.

Byakuya lit candles and warmed his hands over the brazier. He called in a servant, who set up his paper and brushes, ground a stick of ink into a pool of water.

He sat up late, writing to all his advisors, asking for their help. The rhythmic strokes of his brush eased his anxiety. It grew bitterly cold around midnight, and his servant put a heavy robe around his shoulders.

Just as he was finishing up, eyes sore from staring into the candlelight for so long, he heard a knocking from far away. Someone had banged on the front door.

He put his brush down, tensing up immediately. No one would knock at such an hour unless it was urgent, which meant trouble.

"Wake up," he urged his servant, who had fallen asleep in her chair.

She stirred and hurriedly got to her feet, mumbling apologies, but he ignored her. He heard someone stirring about the household, running to answer the door. He strained to hear the door open, to hear who was it that disturbed him. There were confused voices coming from the front of the house.

Byakuya frowned and got up. But before he could reach the door to his room, a scream tore through the silent house.

What a terrible cry!

He thrust the door open and made his way down the hall. There was a servant sprawled out on the floor, vomiting into his hand.

"What's the meaning of this?" Byakuya demanded. "What has happened?"

But the boy whimpered and was silent.

"Help him!" Byakuya called over his shoulder to his servant girl, and swept away. The Warlord made his way to the entrance as quickly as he could, but before he even reached it, the smell of burned flesh and putridity assaulted his nostrils.

The old man in charge of his household was trembling and pointing at the threshold, the light from his lamp shivering where it was cast.

"What is it?" Byakuya demanded.

The old man was pale as death and his voice shook when he spoke. "Someone left this… _package _on the doorstep. I didn't see who it was. There was a m-message."

He held up a piece of parchment that was blotched with red. "It s-says that this is a personal present from the Warlord, Ichigo Kurosaki."

Byakuya turned his eyes to the bundle on the floor and fought back the urge to gag. It was something wrapped up in a pile of dirty cloth, and the cloth was stained with blood.

The _thing _suddenly writhed and squealed like a child, making the old man scream and jump. Byakuya, pale and stiff with horror, bent down and wrenched the cloth wrappings away.

He had to bite down on his tongue to stop himself from crying out.

From within the bundle, a bloody mouth opened and produced a rasping cry. A broken hand reached upwards, covered in gore.

Only the white hair, barely visible beneath the filth, and the wide, terrified teal eyes identified the naked, shivering, bloody thing as Toshiro Hitsugaya.

Byakuya Kuchiki, who usually prided himself on never losing control in front of others, found that there was an uncontrollable tremor in his voice when he snapped, "Get the physician! Immediately!"

…..

Thank you so much for reading and sticking with this story! Please review and let me know what you think! ^_^


	5. Chapter 5

Disclaimer: I don't own Bleach or any Bleach characters. This fanfiction is for entertainment purposes only and no profit is being made.

Warnings: This fic will contain violence, gore, bad language, sex, a relationship that's abusive on both sides, and other mature themes. The main pairings are Rukia/Ichigo and Rukia/Byakuya. *For this chapter, there will be mentions of torture and mutilation!*

….

Chapter 5:

On a cold winter's morning, a rider arrived at the little countryside farm with a message for "Master and Mistress Hitsugaya." His cloak was made of good wool and was as dark as plum, the purple of Lord Kuchiki's court.

The farmer dropped his wilted cabbages to the ground when the man told them that their son had been kidnapped and was later found on a Byakuya Kuchiki's doorstep, that the unknown villains had cut out the boy's tongue and crushed the bones in his left hand, carved into his flesh and branded the boy's hip with a hot iron, as if he was nothing more than an animal.

The farmer's wife cried out once and clasped both hands to her belly, as if she had been struck. She didn't speak at all after that, as if her son's pain had sealed her lips.

Her rough hands shook when she wrapped up steamed bread and powdered meat in brown cloth. Her fingers trembled as she emptied the moneybox and dropped the tarnished silver coins into a purse, silver that had been sent to them from Toshiro years ago.

Silently, the farmer and his wife loaded their mule with provisions and their few valuables. They didn't speak as they traveled through the winter's cold. Their heads were bowed, weighted down with sorrow as they journeyed to see their only son, who had left them as soon as he had been old enough to ride, who was now broken and silent.

X

When a messenger brought Jushiro Ukitake the same news, he was nearly sick with guilt.

"I should have walked him home that night," he whispered to Nanao Ise, who was with him. "I should have stayed with him as he waited for his escort, or walked him home myself. He trusted me and I allowed him to be harmed."

He remembered the feel of the boy's hand in his, how it had trembled in the cold as they walked together. He remembered that Toshiro's chin was still smooth and hairless, and the thought of someone prying that youthful mouth open to tear out his tongue made Jushiro nearly sick enough to vomit.

"Don't blame yourself," Nanao said curtly, practical as ever. "You're not his guardian and he's not your child. You weren't responsible for him. What happened was terrible, but that's not our only problem. They're saying in the streets that it was Kurosaki who attacked him. If that's true, then what does that mean for us? Has he broken the armistice? Or is it some other plot?"

"I don't know Nanao, I really don't know," Jushiro sighed in response, and coughed heavily into a handkerchief. "I expect Byakuya will take action soon, and he'll call for me when the time comes. Until then, I don't know."

The cloth came away wet with blood and Nanao quickly shoved a bowl under his chin as he continued to heave, splattering the porcelain with red.

He spent the rest of the morning shivering in sweat-soaked bed sheets, his chapped lips constantly opened in small, rasping breaths. He could hardly move for the pain in his chest, and when he fell into a fitful sleep, he dreamt that he was grasping endlessly for Toshiro's small hand, but it kept slipping away.

The summons came later than expected, at dusk, and Byakuya's messenger barged shamelessly into the Commander's bedroom. Jushiro's manservant had to heave him up from his bed, sweating, shivering, and half-naked as he received the "urgent message" that Byakuya's military officers and advisors were to meet him in a war council.

He was still feverish as his manservant held him up with a strong arm around his waist and dressed him in his formal robes. Cold sweat dripped into his collar when he stood before Byakuya's war council. He held a handkerchief to his mouth, trying to not to cough with each breath, knowing that behind Gin Ichimaru's smirk, there was a silky taunt waiting.

"We will send troops to the 40th," Byakuya said. "Kurosaki currently occupies the villages there, along with the ports. We will sail up the river where they won't be expecting us, and cut them down."

Jushiro forgot his weakness then and slammed his hands down on the table, disturbing the little purple markers on the map. "You must not! Kurosaki has petitioned for peace and even went so far as to withdraw most of his troops-"

"Kurosaki has lied and made fools of us all!" Byakuya snapped, something he never did in the presence of his officials. His eyes were as hard as glass.

"If this is about the attack on Toshiro Hitsugaya…" Jushiro began.

"Why of course it's about the attack on our Toshiro," Ichimaru cut in, his voice smooth and sweet as poisoned honey. "Apparently, Ichigo Kurosaki has been hiding the face of a sadistic monster beneath that of an honorable peace-seeker. And while we all sat and pondered whether it was time to renew a peace treaty, he somehow snuck into our home and attacked one of our own, our brilliant child prodigy, Toshiro. Can you imagine what kind of cruel, bloodthirsty villain would subject a child to such horrors?"

He tossed a piece of parchment at Jushiro.

"Would you like to see the physician's document of his injuries? Gruesome, isn't it? Oh, don't look at me like that, Commander. There is no privacy in wartime, after all. Toshiro's business is everyone's business."

"Such crimes cannot go unheeded or unpunished, Ukitake," said Byakuya, as Jushiro snatched up the document and studied it, swallowing down his disgust. "Kurosaki have played us all for fools and committed a heinous act of hostility. His petition for peace was nothing more than a cruel joke. He is guilty of the kidnapping of a child and the torture and mutilation of a citizen of the South.

"As I said, we will plan for an attack by water. According to our scouts, the 40th is badly defended as of now…"

"Your Highness, _please_," Jushiro protested. His face was reddened by both passion and the fever of consumption, and he swayed on his feet. He grabbed the table's edge to keep himself upright. "I have many reasons to believe that Kurosaki is innocent of these crimes. I believe the criminal is someone unrelated to Kurosaki. Anyone could have forged a note and a signature, you know that."

"Why, what are you saying? If it wasn't Kurosaki then who was it?" Ichimaru spoke up.

"Everything points to a someone from within," said the Commander, holding up the physician's document. "Look. Toshiro Hitusgaya's tongue was taken and his hand was crushed. It's obviously meant to stop him from either writing or speaking, thus eliminating his use as an advisor. But it was his left hand that was crushed! How could Kurosaki have known that Toshiro was left-handed? Whoever attacked him must have known him well, well enough to know his habits, not to mention where he lives, and the roads he uses to travel.

And he was branded with the image of Kurosaki's badge. I believe the villain did this in order to incriminate Kurosaki, but Kurosaki himself would never use his personal badge for such a thing! Look."

He jabbed his finger at the physician's report.

"A tiger prowling beneath a tree. It's a symbol of Ichigo Kurosaki's heritage, something very personal to him. The tiger is the symbol of his mother's house, the tree is his father's. This badge is etched into the furniture of his house, embroidered on his clothes. It's a source of pride for him, a symbol of the respect he has for his parents. He would _never _use it for such a cruel purpose!

"Furthermore-"

"My, my, how very interesting," drawled Ichimaru.

Jushiro turned and glared at him. "Interrupt me one more time, Ichimaru, and I'll have you removed from this room for insubordination."

The silver-haired man tilted his head back and laughed, his voice so light and lilting it was almost a giggle if not for the underlying purr.

"Oh, how funny! The Commander thinks he's back on the battlefield. My dear man, you'll find it quite difficult to charge _me _for insubordination, as I'm decidedly _not _one of your subordinates. In fact, do you even have any subordinates nowadays?"

"Just say what you were going to say, Gin," Kaname Tosen cut in.

Ichimaru laughed again and took a step closer to Jushiro. "I was simply remarking how interesting it was, what you just said. Funny, how you said that Kurosaki couldn't have known that 'Shiro was left-handed when the truth is, no one _does _know of it but _you_. Am I right, gentlemen?"

Jushiro narrowed his eyes as there was a quiet murmur of consent among those present. He could feel the heat of fever in his face and Ichimaru's demon smile was making it worse.

"It's because he's embarrassed by it," said Jushiro. "He only uses a pen in front of people he knows well enough."

"In other words," said Ichimaru, "_you _are the one who knows him well, well enough to know his habits?"

Jushiro's next words died on his blood-spotted lips.

"And it seems, dear Commander, that you are the only who knows about Ichigo Kurosaki's badge. Very interesting information indeed, the first time we've heard of it, am I right again, gentlemen? Very interesting, _personal _information."

"I'm not sure I appreciate what you're implying…"

"But never mind that. What you said does make sense. The evidence does point to a traitor among us Southerners, one who knows Toshiro quite well. Hah, and of course, all of us do spend quite a bit of time with the lad. That's the most disturbing thought of all, isn't it? That one of us, perhaps even you or I, may have helped the enemy to commit this terrible crime."

"What, helped the enemy? No, I… I meant that Kurosaki had nothing to do with it." For a second, Jushiro's head swam. His throat felt terribly dry and scratchy, even as he spoke those words.

Ichimaru casually waved one of his hands, as if brushing off Jushiro's comment. His nails were kept long, as was customary for a scholar, and they looked like claws.

There was sweat in Jushiro's eyes and he blinked hard. He could feel the pressure of a cough rising in his chest and clapped a hand to his mouth.

"But of course the traitor is in league with the enemy," said Ichimaru. His smile was like an open gash in his face. His voice sounded odd to Jushiro's ears, as if the words were ringing and echoing and clashing against each other.

Damn this fever…

Jushiro glanced around and saw that everyone, even the Warlord was staring at him.

"Of course, of course, the traitor is working for Kurosaki," said Ichimaru. "Why else would a Southerner do such a thing, and then frame Kurosaki for it? We are agreed, that it's a Southerner, aren't we, dear Commander? A Southerner, as you said, who is familiar with Toshiro Hitsugaya, and has knowledge of Ichigo Kurosaki's habits as well. Heh, interesting, isn't it, how it could be you, even?"

He smiled as he spoke, twirling his long, pale fingers through the air, as if he were pulling strings, silky threads that gathered into the hangman's noose, tightening around Jushiro's neck.

Disgusted, Jushiro turned away from the demon smile and the demon claw.

"You're Highness," he pleaded. "This is not the way. Please, listen to me. I have every reason to believe that-"

"Enough, Ukitake!" said Byakuya, turning a cold face to his old mentor. "You are wasting my time. Tomorrow, we muster the troops for an attack. That's all there is to it. Either talk strategy with me, or not at all."

Jushiro recognized that look, the cold, hard look of someone who had made up his mind and wouldn't be budged. He had known and mentored Byakuya ever since the Warlord was a young man. He remembered when Byakuya still wore Hisana's scented handkerchiefs in his belt. And now, he took one look at Byakuya's face and saw nothing but hardness, and he knew that his pupil had turned away from him.

He could feel the heat rising to his face, a hot mix of anger and disappointment.

In a fit of passion, he lashed out and swept the maps off the table in front of him, knocking the little purple markers to the floor.

"Do you think that he won't fight back?" he shouted, flecks of blood flying from his mouth to land on the tabletop. "If you take action against the 40th, he will strike back at you ten times harder! He will think of it as betrayal! Mark my words, Byakuya Kuchiki, you will regret it."

He coughed harshly and couldn't stop, each hacking cough lancing his frail body with pain. He couldn't stop, even as he shoved both hands against his mouth and his ears were filled with ringing. He swayed and almost fell, on the edge of a swoon.

Someone grabbed his arm and steadied him, and he could hear Byakuya crying out, "Remove him from this room!" but the Warlord's voice sounded distant and echoing.

Both his arms were taken and Jushiro was half-dragged, half-carried out. He raised his weary head and the last thing he saw before he was taken out of the room was Gin Ichimaru's smirking face.

"Sorry, Commander," said the guard, even though he hadn't done anything wrong.

The grip on Jushiro's elbow was gentle. He was set down on a chair, a cup of warm tea pressed to his lips.

"Thank you kindly," whispered Jushiro, when the coughing had eased. The anger had gone, leaving him feeling empty. His body ached.

"Perhaps you should go home, Commander. Take a rest. They won't listen to you, anyhow."

X

But Jushiro didn't rest after the guard escorted him out of Lord Kuchiki's compound. He went home, washed his face, and put on a new robe, then made his way to Toshiro Hitsugaya's house.

The wood floors and colorful tiles of the boy's house were expensive, and the old, unadorned furniture made an odd contrast. The house was big, Jushiro thought, too big for a boy living alone with the Granny he loved too much to leave behind on the farm. But it was a gift from Byakuya Kuchiki, along with Toshiro's wages, for his employment.

They let him in when he called, but wouldn't let him see Toshiro. The farmer and his wife barred the way to their son's bedroom like a pair of haggard guards.

They didn't bow to him or address him the proper way for a nobleman, and Jushiro didn't think to admonish them. He put the jar of expensive medicine on the roughly hewn table near the door and left.

"Damn Byakuya Kuchiki and all you good-for-nothing bureaucrats," the mother hissed, as Jushiro stepped over the threshold. "Damn you for taking our son away from us, away from his family, away from his home. We're taking him back, and there's nothing you can do about it."

X

The river that snaked around the 40th district was shrouded in mist, and the currents brought the Southern army to enemy territory, hidden, armed, and ready for battle. Before the dawn broke, Byakuya's men landed on Kurosaki's turf, some of them jumping from the boats before they even reached dry ground, led forward by their bloodlust like hounds on the scent.

Kurosaki's soldiers, who had been waiting everyday for the call to return home, were instead awoken by the metal clang of the alarm.

Scrambling to put on their armor, they were met with arrows and spears, thrusting brutally into unprotected bellies and throats.

The Southerners broke upon them like a wave, bellowing for blood. Hopelessly outnumbered and caught by surprise, the Northerners tried to flee, but Byakuya's men dragged them down from their horses and hacked at their limbs. They showed no mercy, as if they would avenge each of Toshiro Hitsugaya's wounds with a thousand men.

The battle was brief and brutal, and left the streets smelling of blood and raw flesh.

The victorious men raised their weapons and cheered at their victory, as if they hadn't just butchered enemies who were outnumbered, who had cried for mercy.

"We are revenged," they said to one another, yet none of them had even met the boy they were avenging, nor really cared that Toshiro Hitsugaya was now bedridden and feverish.

The very next day, Byakuya Kuchiki's guards arrested two men on charge of treason, for no reason other than having letters found in their homes, letters addressed to the Northern districts. The day after that, five more were brought in for questioning. More were arrested that week. People became afraid of what they said, what they wrote, afraid that _something _would link them to the ugly incident and they would be arrested too.

The seed had been planted in the Warlord's mind, that there was a traitor among them, and Byakuya's court became a court of suspicion.

Behind the wooden walls of his encampment, Ichigo Kurosaki was furious. He railed at Shunsui Kyoraku, who was now disgraced in his young eyes. He railed at Byakuya Kuchiki, shouting and ripping up reports of the attack on the 40th, as if he would rip apart the other Warlord from limb to limb.

"This is what became of your peace treaty!" he shouted, flinging bits of shredded paper at Kyoraku, who stood silently and refused to flinch. "I've been made to look like a fool. How dare they? Damn them to the very depths of hell."

Kyoraku cleared his throat. "If you would only listen, they have allegations that-"

"I know, I know! They're accusing me of mutilating children. They're accusing me of being a child-killing monster. They're insulting me in the streets. Liars and slanderers. Byakuya Kuchiki is the real monster, cutting down my men after I've already opted for an armistice. Damn him!"

"They're claiming that you personally demanded Toshiro Hitsugaya's tongue on a platter," Kyoraku said darkly. "Is this true?"

"Of course it isn't true!" Ichigo snapped. "Or maybe it is, I don't know. I say things. Everyone says things. But I wasn't the one who attacked him. I had nothing to do with it! And if Kuchiki's using that flimsy accusation to wage war, then he's sunk low indeed!"

"If you would just clear your name-"

"I'll clear my name by ripping his army apart and stamping them into the dust! No, don't speak anymore, old man. I don't want to hear it. Apparently, Byakuya Kuchiki does not love peace. I blame this on you, Kyoraku! You and your babbling about treaties. I won't have it anymore, do you hear?"

It was starting all over again, and Kyoraku could do nothing but watch. He could only watch as his once-pupil raged and threatened and beat his fists on the tabletop. He could only stand helplessly by as war orders were given out, as Sosuke Aizen stepped in, smiling a demon smile and assuring the young Warlord that he, unlike Kyoraku, would support His Highness.

Kyoraku could only watch as the maps were unrolled, as the planning and the battle strategies began anew.

He slipped away to the outside and Ichigo never noticed, surrounded by his advisors.

Kyoraku sighed and watched as his breath unfurled in the cold air. Flurries of snow were falling, dampening his shoulders. The ground was cold beneath his feet.

"Well, Willow," he whispered to no one. "Everything's falling to pieces. What do we do now?"

X

The days grew colder and Rukia had to wear her mittens to bed so she wouldn't wake up with numb, cramped hands.

Bowls of ginger and pepper soup were dished out each evening. It stung her throat as it went down and made her stomach churn unpleasantly, but it warmed her from head to toe.

The other men were restless. Only days ago, they had been talking quietly of peace and the joy of seeing home again. Now, they gnashed their teeth and the anger among them was almost palpable.

Byakuya Kuchiki had rejected their offer of peace and attacked the 40th. Stories of his men's brutality reached every corner of Kurosaki's camp, along with the rumor that the Southerners were accusing Lord Kurosaki of kidnapping and attacking Toshiro Hitsugaya. Kurosaki's men took it as a personal insult, stamping the frozen ground in their eagerness to go to battle, to defend their master's honor.

Rukia felt sick when she heard the stories. She hadn't loved Toshiro, her once fiancé. She hadn't even liked him much and remembered him as a sullen, cold little boy. But she remembered that he had bought her a hair ribbon once and had worn her ring on his finger for the short time they were engaged. The stories that she heard made her sick enough to vomit.

Every passing day, she grew more and more anxious, feeling trapped as she watched regiment after regiment march out, then come back hauling their injured and dead. The acrid smell of the funeral pyres lingered in the air for days.

Her squad hadn't been summoned to battle yet, but she knew it was only a matter of time, and the fear of it was like a lead weight in her belly.

To her surprise, Soifon sought her out one day, despite the woman's insistence that they not be seen together.

Rukia was taking a walk when a pebble hit her head.

"Psst!" Soifon hissed from above, and Rukia looked up, surprised to see that the woman was perched nimbly on the branch of her tree. Soifon gestured and Rukia climbed up so that they were both shrouded by snow-covered branches, hunched so close together they could feel each other's breath on their cheeks.

Rukia marveled that Soifon was crouched so lightly on the bough that she didn't even disturb the clumps of snow.

"Things are bad," Soifon whispered, and Rukia was surprised to hear the quaver in her voice.

Soifon's lips were chapped and drooping, released from their usual tight scowl. Her hair was just the slightest bit too messy. Her lashes were moist. Rukia could see that her fingers were trembling slightly from where the gripped a branch. Rukia could smell the sour tang of sweat on Soifon's hair and clothes.

There was a look in the woman's eyes that Rukia would never have imagined seeing, the wild, unfocused look of fear.

"I haven't been able to contact anyone on our side for weeks now. I don't know what to do. Kurosaki is preparing for a huge attack on the Southern provinces, and an attack by water as well. I can't get the message to our side. I don't know what to do."

"B-but couldn't you sneak away somehow?" Rukia stammered.

Soifon shook her head. "The roads, the supply routes, the forest trails, they're all _choked _with Kurosaki's men. He's mustering the countryside and the towns. I hear he's sent wagonloads of leather boots to the farmers, and they're hammering their tools into weapons so they can fight. It's going to be a massacre for us, if I don't find some way to contact our people.

"But they'll burn me if they catch me, which they will if I try to escape. I don't know what to do."

She put her head in her hands and cradled it as if it hurt.

Rukia was shocked. To see razor-sharp Soifon like this, face puckered in fear and frayed at the edges, was unsettling. She didn't know what to say, so she reached out a tentative hand and touched Soifon's shoulder, hoping that touch would convey some comfort.

She wasn't surprised that Soifon was hard as metal under her hand. It felt like the woman was nothing but muscles and bones, unyielding, and it pained Rukia to see this iron woman brought so low with despair.

Soifon reached into the folds of her uniform and pressed two packets of paper into Rukia's hands.

"If anything happens to me, I want you to give these letters to-"

"Wait, what?" exclaimed Rukia. "What's going to happen? What are you going to do?"

"Nothing. It's better you don't know, so you won't blow my cover by mistake. Send this one to my family at the 20th district. And send this one to Commander Shihoin if you can. Somehow. Anonymously, of course. It's nothing, really. I just… wanted her to know that even though I acted as her enemy, I truly admired her. I would have died for her if we were on the same side."

"What! Commander Shihoin? How am I supposed to manage that without giving the both of us away?"

But when she looked at Soifon's face, scrunched up in discomfort, Rukia knew that it wasn't so much that Soifon _truly_ wanted Yoruichi Shihoin to read the letter. It was something that the woman, trapped for so long in an enemy's uniform, desperately wanted to put down in words. Whether anyone actually read it was irrelevant.

"Yes," Rukia said hastily, and shoved both papers into the folds of her clothing. They were cold and rough against her bare breast. "Of course I will."

Soifon stood then, treading the bough on small, snow-covered feet. She spread her arms out, balancing herself up on the bough for just a minute, as if held up by thin air, and Rukia thought Soifon looked like she was dancing on the edge of a knife.

Looking back and forth to see that they weren't being watched, Soifon jumped from her perch and landed on the ground, sending up a puff of white snow.

"By the way," said Soifon, turning her head to look up at Rukia's surprised face. "I know you've been stealing bandages from the infirmary. Next month, use cotton wads instead. They're less messy. And burn the stuff afterwards, don't bury it, or it'll attract ants."

Rukia flushed deeply as Soifon left, her feet barely making an imprint on the fallen snow.

That was the last time Rukia saw her, razor-sharp Soifon who could cut down a man with one blow, iron Soifon, harsh and unyielding Soifon.

There was a clamor the next morning and everyone was in a frenzy of anger, fear, and morbid curiosity.

"What happened?" Rukia demanded, pulling someone aside.

"We've caught a spy!" he said. "Can you believe it? It was one of the members of the Women's Division. They got her while she was trying to escape last night and she took out five of our men. Pity we couldn't get her alive. She swallowed a packet of poison and died instantly. But they gave her the proper treatment, even though she was dead. Traitors and spies deserve it, you know."

_So_, Rukia thought_, they desecrated her body. That's what you mean by "special treatment," isn't it?_

She refused scramble to the gate with everyone else. She refused to see Soifon's head on a spike, her body strung up for the world to see.

Instead, Rukia ran to the dark privacy of the barracks. Instead of hanging around the gate and throwing rocks at Soifon's limp, headless body, she threw herself across her cot and screamed into her fist. She screamed at the thought that Soifon should die in such a way, chased like a common criminal, cornered like a dog, dying with the taste of bitter poison in her mouth.

X

"Damn it," Renji swore. With an angry kick, he sent snow into his campfire and doused it.

Even from his lonely little hideout, just on the outside of Kurosaki's encampment, he had seen them raise Soifon's body on a gibbet. Even now, there were scouts swarming into the surrounding area, torches held high to smoke out any other spies that might be lurking.

"Sorry, Rukia," he muttered, snatching up his meager belongings and wrapping them up. "Please be alright. I can't stay and watch over you anymore."

He mounted his horse and kicked it into a gallop, running away from the smoke of the enemy's torches and from the horror of the gibbet.

X

The whole camp was thrown into suspicion. Soifon had been a high-ranking officer in the Women's Division, and Kurosaki's military took it as an insult that they had allowed a spy to infiltrate their army and stay long enough to rise through the ranks. The officers were determined to search under every cot and cinder block for any other spies.

Anything could throw anyone under suspicion, and routine checks were made on all the barracks. A nail file could be seen as a murder weapon intended to kill a commanding officer. A letter could be seen as a secret code, intended to leak military information.

On the night her squad was to be investigated, Rukia cut her forearm with a borrowed paring knife. She slipped Soifon's letters between her breasts and wrapped her entire torso and shoulders with white bandages, dribbling her own blood in between layers. The cloth map she had made was twisted into a scarf for her hair.

When the new Sergeant and a superior officer came to inspect them, she stood before her cot like everyone else. When she, like the others, was ordered to strip down to her skin, she claimed that she had suffered an injury in the last battle and pulled up the hem of her nightshirt to expose the bloody bandages. All of her former squad members were dead from the last battle, and no one was there to prove her false.

They took her bed apart, turned her socks inside out, and shook her shoes to see if anything fell out. But they did not insist that she de-robe, and moved on when they found nothing.

She nearly fainted with relief.

But the bite of fear stayed with her, and she always walked with one ear open for an accusation, a shout for her to be arrested. She slept fitfully at night, after watching soldiers being taken away by the guards to be questioned, again and again.

She opened and read Soifon's letter to her family later, finding words of loyalty, devotion, apology, and a detached sort of love. She read it while huddled in bed, holding a piece of glass to direct the moonlight to the paper, only daring to unfold the letters in darkness.

Rukia read it three times and memorized it. She then burned it in the kitchen hearth the next day. The letter to Yoruichi Shihoin went into the flames as well, unopened and unread.

"I'm sorry," Rukia whispered softly. Not for anything, would she risk those two letters being found on her. Not for anything, would she even dare to read the letter addressed to Commander Shihoin. The confines of her mind weren't enough to hide the contents of that letter, as Rukia didn't trust herself not to say anything, not to flinch when Commander Shihoin walked by.

Fire ate at the dry paper, making it brown and curl. Rukia closed her eyes and clasped her hands in a brief prayer, as if this was Soifon's funeral pyre.

Surprisingly, the body was taken down from the gibbet that day, by the order of Commander Shihoin herself. Soifon was give a proper funeral, and it was whispered that the Commander had shed tears while her ex-subordinate's body burned down to ash.

X

The army was getting ready to march, and Rukia's squad was given orders to move out within three days.

In the days before the march, her Sergeant drove the squad in practice marches around the camp, all of them decked out in full armor. The tread of boots shook the earth as they stamped their way around the armory, mimicking the rhythm of war.

Her sword was strapped tightly to her waist and the spear was heavy in her hands. Even with all her training, she still hadn't gotten used to the heavy, unwieldy weapon. It swung clumsily in her hands and made her fingers ache.

The camp itself was being dismantled, bit by bit. Everything was being torn down and packed, tied into bundles and wrapped up in cloth. Lumber and supplies were loaded onto wagons. Canvas tents were taken down and folded. Horses stamped their hooves on the ground and snorted white puffs of air as they were saddled and bridled.

"Move along," the new Sergeant said when he caught Rukia staring off into the distance, and she jogged to catch up.

She stamped each foot hard into the snow, as if she would stamp away the uneasy feeling in her stomach. There was no one else to reassure her now, no Sergeant Shiba to take her shoulder and tell her to stay out of harm's way. All the other men were grim-faced behind their helms, all too eager for the battles to come. It seemed that she was the only one marching out with dread.

"Your Highness, Lord Kurosaki!" the Sergeant said suddenly, and saluted. The whole squad stopped in their tracks to bow their heads in respect, as Ichigo Kurosaki passed by.

Rukia gasped and kept her face as low as she could. Her heart froze for an instant, when she felt him pause slightly when he walked past her, but he didn't linger.

"Good job, Sergeant," said Kurosaki. "Carry on."

"Thank you, Your Highness! But, may I ask why you are carrying that sword, and not Zangetsu?"

Rukia peeked upwards through her bangs and saw that Kurosaki had indeed forgone his customary sword. An ordinary-looking katana was tucked into his belt.

Kurosaki chuckled and played with the hilt, pushing it out and then letting the blade fall back into the sheath with a click.

"Well, it's too important a sword to be hefted around on the road," he replied, voice raised above the whistling of the wind. "And it's too heavy and large to ride with easily. I left Zangetsu back in my rooms. It's waiting to be packed up with the other valuables."

"Of course, of course. That's perfectly reasonable, sir."

For a second, Rukia thought the Warlord's eyes flicked towards her, and she bit back a gasp. But in the next second, he looked away again and continued wherever he was going.

"Carry on," he repeated, as he walked towards where a stable boy had his horse saddled. He paused, just as he was about to mount, his head half-turned so that Rukia could only see the profile of his face.

"Though, I do wish we could have spared a few guards to supervise the house while everything's being packed," he said, and gracefully swung himself up into the saddle. "But, I suppose the men were needed elsewhere."

Her heart pounded excitedly as he rode away. If what Kurosaki said was true, then his set of rooms in the middle of the encampment were now unguarded. His sword was in his room, unguarded except by a few servants. And with the camp in such a frenzy to tear everything down and leave, she could easily escape if she managed to take the sword.

"Shibata!" yelled her Sergeant, making her jump. "Quit daydreaming!"

"Sorry, sir!" she replied. She hurried to catch up with the rest of them, but lagged behind as discreetly as she could.

"I've got a hole in my boot," she muttered to the soldier next to her. "Tell the Sergeant I'll catch up as soon as I get another pair."

Not waiting for a response, she shoved her spear into his hand and dashed off in the opposite direction.

As there were many low-ranked soldiers running around, either helping with the preparations or carrying scraps of message-bearing parchment to other squads, no one took much notice of her as she made her way to Kurosaki's house.

It was even less guarded than she had expected. There was no one even near the wooden building. From behind a tree, she peeked into the windows and saw no one bustling around indoors either.

Her arms were trembling with anticipation and she grabbed her elbows to keep them still. Quickly, she glanced right and left to see that no one had followed her, and made a dash for the side entrance.

Rukia shivered as she stepped into the dim coolness of Kurosaki's house. There was no one there, not even the servants. It was cold and empty.

Pulling off the restricting helmet from her head, she tiptoed up the stairs. Relying on memory, she made her way to Kurosaki's private chambers, ears straining for any noise, any hint of someone following her.

The door was unlocked and she pushed her way into his rooms.

The room was bathed in the grayish daylight, and she stopped in her tracks, surprised at how different it looked. The last time she was here, it was dark and she hadn't been able to notice much besides the frantic, panicked beating of her own heart.

She hadn't noticed how colorful the wall hangings were, how fine the curtains, how detailed the engravings on the braziers. The room was messy, but it was the kind of disorder that came with packing and disassembling.

Trunks were open, filled to the brim with linens and expensive paper. The bed was stripped of all coverings. The small writing desk in the corner was covered with various objects, including jars of tea and handkerchiefs.

Everything was so fine: the polished nails in the furniture, the silky embroidery on the curtains, the delicate calligraphy on the scrolls. The peachy-pink lips of the painted lady smiled serenely down at her. The room smelled faintly of warm candle wax, and it was so quiet she could hear the thrumming of her own heart.

It seemed like a world apart from everything else, as different as night and day from the ragged, smoky existence of the barracks and the garish, flowery opulence of the dancing girls' dressing room. It was the cool, quiet feel of a room that belonged to a wealthy, learned man. It was the tasteful, muted luxury that was expensive paper and ink and lightly scented sheets.

The silvery trickle of dust motes rising in the air had Rukia's eyes fluttering, the pain of homesickness sharp and clear in her chest.

It was strange. The furniture, the clothes that were haphazardly thrown over chairs and drawers, even the carpets were in the wild, bold Northern style, but the very atmosphere was as familiar to her as Byakuya's own study.

Her helmet slipped from her fingers and fell clanging to the floor. Her breath came out in a sigh, which echoed off the walls.

And then, she felt it. For a moment, she had forgotten why she came, but there was a plaintive tug in her chest that shook her out of her reverie. As if of their own accord, her eyes turned and stared into the darkest corner of the room.

"Zangetsu," she whispered, and realized that she was already walking towards it, arm stretched out.

She wondered how she had known it was a sword at all. It wasn't in a case or a sheath, or resting on a gilded stand. Instead, the Warlord's mighty sword was lying propped up against the wall, wrapped in nothing but strips of old cloth.

Odd, how it almost seemed to be _calling _to her, as if pulling her towards it with invisible strings. She didn't know how it was possible, but there was almost a physical power emanating from the swaddled sword. It was as if the weapon, dull and odd-looking, was a burning coal, heating the air all around it and scorching the tips of her fingers.

She brushed the handle with the back of her hand, entranced.

_Tap_.

Her eyes snapped open at a sound from behind her.

Rukia whirled around to see the Warlord himself, leaning against the doorframe and looking at her.

"I knew it," Kurosaki said. His voice was as deadly and quiet as a snake's hiss. "I knew you were up to something, Kiyone. Or should I say, Yuichi Shibata?"

He smiled and pushed off the doorjamb and sauntered towards her. He had removed his armor and his boots, which explained how he had snuck up behind her so easily. He was wearing nothing but a long, black robe that clung to his body like water.

"I… I was just…" Rukia stammered.

He cut her off with a chuckle. It came to her then, how he had caught her so easily. How he seemed to have been waiting for her.

"You knew?" she gasped. "You planned this? When you spoke to the captain… that was on purpose? You meant for me to hear?"

"Yes," he answered. Five more steps, and he was right in front of her. She retreated up until her back hit the wall. His smile was crooked and mischievous, as if he were a cat who had caught a mouse. "I must admit, I didn't even think to suspect you at first. You were clever. But you stink like a Southerner, and you left your stench behind."

He tilted his head and peered at her like a curious child. "I found you interesting, so I asked around. I asked the Madam if she had anyone named Kiyone in her employment. She told me there was no "Kiyone" among her regular girls. But she does recall a certain clumsy, dark-haired chit from the night of my birthday celebration.

"I sent someone to check the bawdy houses in the surrounding villages, asking for a Kiyone. And what do you know, there wasn't any Kiyone. But she certainly exists, doesn't she? I've seen you more than once, wandering around this camp like it's your home. So I asked my officers, the Sergeants and the Lieutenants, if _they _knew of a short, dark-haired, violet-eyed person. Turns out they did, Miss Cross Dresser."

He grinned and she found herself gulping. Her palms were slick with sweat.

Kurosaki had been naked above her before, and she had been disgusted. But for some reason, he was enchanting her now. Odd, that she found him so much more seductive with his clothes on.

Everything about him was silky and dark, his eyes glinting in the dimness. He moved like a shadow, the silk of his robe sliding up and down his body as he walked. She could feel the heat emanating from his body, just as she felt the power from his sword, and she felt her face growing red.

"Yuichi Shibata," he said, sounding out each syllable. His voice was rich, like wine, and Rukia felt it going to her head, as if he were intoxicating her. "Dark hair and dark eyes, they said. They told me that you were in the habit of asking questions. Questions, in particular, about my legendary sword. That's why you came here, isn't it? That's why you snuck into my room that night, wasn't it?"

"I can explain!" she cried out, terror, confusion, and heady desire all mixed up so that she felt faint. "I'm not a spy! I'm not a Southerner!"

"You _are_," he hissed, leaning close. "You are a spy and a Southerner. That's enough to hang you twice, Little Pretend Prostitute. Now, here's what's going to happen. You're going to drop that sword of yours to the ground, nice and slow. Then, I'm going to call the guards and-"

She didn't let him finish. Rukia may have been young, but she had lived most of her life in Byakuya's court, staring down the haughtiest of men and the shrewdest of women. She knew what this young Warlord expected of her.

He expected her to beg for mercy. He expected her to fall on her knees and submit to him. She could tell from the twist of his smile, the arrogant toss of his shoulders.

It was enough to kill her desire instantly.

Well, she didn't particularly feel like begging for mercy, so she did the only thing she could think of and punched him hard in the stomach.

His brown eyes went wide and he doubled over with a gasp. Without hesitating, she drove her knee into his face as it came down and sent him falling backwards.

As he reeled and clutched a hand to his nose, she dashed for the door.

"Get back here!" he growled and grabbed her from behind, trapping her arms to her sides.

Rukia screamed and stamped downwards as hard as she could, crushing his foot beneath her boot heel. He cursed and let go.

Spinning around so fast she made herself dizzy, she took the hilt of her sword and drew it. But Kurosaki recovered quickly and grabbed both her hand and the hilt, slamming the sword back into its sheath and keeping it there. With his other hand, he grabbed her neck hard enough to lift her halfway off her feet.

"Give it up," he said, shaking her so that she choked and turned beet-red. "Do you think you can beat me? I've been brawling since I was nine. Now, you _will _come quietly or I won't hesitate to pound you senseless, whether you're a girl or not."

Her lungs were burning and black spots were appearing in her vision, but she knew that if she allowed him to drag her off, it would mean torture and death. Panic gave her the strength to lash out with her feet. She kicked him hard in the leg and once in the stomach, so that he grunted and let go.

She fell, gasping, to the floor. Looking up, she saw him reaching for her again and kicked upwards. Unfortunately for him, she caught him in the groin and made him fall over, groaning.

In an instant, she sprang up and straddled him, slamming her fists into his face repeatedly.

Through the haze of fury, she realized that she was screaming obscenities at him, not in the husky Northern accent she had tried to develop, or the soft, cultured voice of her brother's court. Instead, she was yelling in the harsh, shrill voice of streets, cursing his entire family tree from his ancestors to his future grandchildren.

It was she who had his neck in a tight grip now, and when she had punched him until he was quite dizzy, she drew back her other hand to gather energy in her palm. A kido spell was on the tip of her tongue.

Never reveal your kido!

She froze as she remembered Renji's words. She hesitated and the energy dissipated, leaving her hand empty.

And in that moment of hesitation, Kurosaki managed to buck her off, rise up, and smash his forehead into her face.

With a sharp cry, Rukia tumbled to the floor, dazed. She could feel a trickle of blood flow down her temple and her vision grew fuzzy. The last thing she saw was Kurosaki's blurry face looming over her, looking quite furious.

X

Rukia woke up to find herself lashed to a chair. Leather straps crossed her chest and held her arms to her sides. More straps secured her feet to the legs of the chair. There was a sharp pain in her head and she groaned, blinking several times to see where she was.

She recognized the canvas walls of a tent and realized she was being held somewhere on the grounds of the encampment. It was dim and she squinted to see the interior lit by a flickering lamp.

"You're awake," someone said softly, making Rukia jump in surprise. At once, she twisted in her bonds, trying to free her hands. She broke out in a sweat, the scent of her own fear filling her nostrils.

"W-where am I?" she demanded. "Who are you?"

As Rukia trembled in her bonds, a slender, blank-faced person stepped into the light. She wore the uniform of the Women's Division.

"You are a prisoner," she said. Her voice was quiet but pervasive, and Rukia felt it creeping up her neck like a breath. "I am here for your interrogation."

"N-no! I shouldn't be here! I haven't done anything wrong!" Rukia cried out. "Please…"

Her wide, panicked eyes flicked over to the table by the side.

On a swath of cloth, a variety of frightening instruments were laid out. Needles, scoops, all kinds of pronged tools, shears, vials of murky-looking liquid, and a collar with sharpened spikes on the inside.

_Instruments of torture_, Rukia thought.

She closed her eyes with a shudder when she thought she saw blood staining some of the pronged knives.

A hysterical laugh bubbled in her throat. To imagine, that she had actually pitied Soifon, pitied the fact that the spy had died alone in the midst of danger, with bitter poison on her tongue. Rukia realized now that Soifon was the lucky one, to have ended her life so quickly. Soifon didn't give herself the chance to be captured and tortured until she broke.

And Rukia knew that if the blank-faced woman pierced her flesh, if the woman so much as touched her with the blood-stained prongs, she would spill everything: who she was, who her brother was, everything they wanted to know and more.

The woman walked casually over to the table and picked up one of the branding irons. She twirled it between two fingers as if it were a pen then thrust the end of it into a nearby brazier.

Rukia felt her toes curl up in her boots, a sob pressing against her lips as she trembled. She could feel the heat of the fire, smell the metallic tang as the brand heated. Any words she might have used to defend herself were caught in her throat.

"That'll do, Nemu," said a new voice. Rukia turned to her right and noticed that someone was sweeping aside the canvas flap of the tent and entering.

The familiar face of Kukaku Shiba came into view. "Go on. I'll take over from here." She plucked the smoking brand from Nemu's hand.

"Yes Ma'am," Nemu replied in that whispery, heartless voice, and stepped out.

A brief gust of wind followed the swinging of the tent flap and Rukia shivered. She looked fearfully up at Kukaku Shiba, who frowned back.

After a few heartbeats of silence, Kukaku sighed and dumped the iron brand back onto the table, where it clinked against the other tools.

"You look terrible," she said, without looking at Rukia. "What a mess you've gotten yourself into. Were you born reckless and stupid or have you just taken too many hits to the head lately?"

Carelessly, as if there wasn't a tied-up prisoner half-dying of fear before her, Kukaku shrugged off her cloak. Her muscled arms were bare underneath and her bosom bulged under the thin red fabric she was wearing.

Paying no mind to her near-nakedness, she folded her cloak into a square and set it down on a nearby stool. She sat down on this makeshift cushion and crossed her ankle over her knee, peering at Rukia.

"So," she said. "You're the spy that Ganju died to protect."

"P-please, I-!"

"No, don't say anything. Not yet." She sighed again and pulled her arms back behind her head in a lazy stretch. "And don't worry about Nemu. She was just trying to scare you. You know, they sent me here to question you because they thought that since I lost my brother, my hatred for you would be greater. They thought I would be more ruthless."

Rukia flinched at the mention of Ganju but Kukaku didn't seem to notice. Instead, the bare-armed woman stood and walked over to the table. But instead of picking up any of the torture implements, she looked at them with disgust and flipped the cloth over them.

"Well, I _am _ruthless," she continued. "But only with a sword in my hand and a spear in the other, while charging at the enemy. I'm not about to torture a helpless, frightened girl scared half out of her mind."

She pulled the stool up and sat, leaning close to Rukia.

"Now," she said calmly, "I'm not going to ask you to tell me who sent you, or what your plans were, or the name of your Commander's third cousin. I'm not going to rip your eyes out, or pull out your fingernails. But I'm going to ask you your name. You can tell me that much, can't you?"

Rukia held back her answer, knowing that if she replied too quickly, Kukaku would know she was lying. She tried to act reluctant and uncomfortable, which wasn't too difficult as her hands were slowly going numb and her head was throbbing.

"My name is Kiyone Kotetsu," she said hesitantly. Kukaku stared at her, and Rukia winced, hoping against all hope that the Lieutenant wouldn't see through the lie.

"Kiyone Kotetsu?" said Kukaku. Her gaze was burning into Rukia's head.

"You're a noble aren't you?" Kukaku said suddenly.

"What?" Rukia gasped.

Kukaku reached over and grabbed Rukia's cheek in one hand. She ran her thumb over Rukia's eyebrow. The elegant, plucked curve was still visible, though stubble had grown around it. Kukaku fingered Rukia's hair. The accumulated sweat, grime, and smoke from living in the camp still couldn't obscure the luster and thickness of well-kept locks that had been combed repeatedly by servants and doused with sweet oil.

"It's in the way you look, the way you speak, they way you move," said Kukaku. "You wiped your tears away so delicately, the first time we met."

"B-but how did you know I was a noble? How did you know I wasn't simply a spoiled merchant's daughter? Or the maid of a noblewoman?"

"Well, I didn't know," drawled Kukaku, smirking. "But now I do."

Rukia cursed herself for giving it away. Maybe she _was _slowly losing her wits.

"Kotetsu, huh?" said Kukaku. "I've never heard of that family."

She bent down and took the hem of her white kilt. With a yank, Kukaku tore away a strip of cloth.

"Well," she said idly, starting to wind the cloth around her hand, covering the back of her knuckles. "You're probably a runaway. Probably snuck away from your home to cause some trouble, huh? Probably didn't expect to be caught. You sure did bang up Ichigo's face pretty badly. But don't worry. You're lucky you're a noble. As the Warlord, he's obligated to follow the law, and the law forbids him to torture or kill someone of noble blood, even if she is a Southerner.

"I suppose I'll tell His Highness, when we're done here. He'll have no choice but to set you up as a well-kept hostage. You won't be set free, but at least you won't be killed."

She stood and pushed back her stool, so that she was standing before Rukia. She took Rukia's face in both hands, turning it this way and that.

"Still," sighed Kukaku, "they did send me in here to do a job, and it would look bad if I didn't rough you up a little bit. I have to make it look convincing. After all, they _are _arresting people left and right on suspicion of treason and fraternizing with the enemy. You understand. No hard feelings, right?"

The woman grinned and pulled her cloth-covered fist back for a swing.

X

Afterwards, Rukia wound up with a bloody nose, a black eye, and a few bruises on her cheeks. It was hardly life threatening, but combined with the head injury Kurosaki gifted her with earlier, her face now felt like one sore, throbbing mess.

The guards took her and put her in a cell, a chilly, damp place that was located somewhere within Kurosaki's house. There was a pallet on the floor, with a thin blanket to wrap herself in. A small barred window allowed her a sliver of the outside world.

The guard who had the duty of watching her lounged nearby with a disdainful look on his face.

Rukia huddled on her pallet, blowing her hands to get warm. Eventually, someone came to bring her food. A bowl of lukewarm rice porridge and a steamed bun was pushed in through the bars, along with a cup of stale water.

She ate her meal without complaint, tearing into the white flesh of the bun, though the blandness of it made her want to gag.

But as the hour grew late and the air grew colder, she found that her fear was slowly abating and her resolve was returning.

She had been afraid. She had almost wet herself when she had woken up, strapped to a chair in the enemy's tent. Though she had refused to submit to Kurosaki, she had been ready to beg for mercy when the metal torture instruments were displayed before her.

But now, as the sun set and the guard was beginning to yawn and rub his eyes, her confidence returned. Her fears were fading away with the winter sunlight.

Oddly enough, the fact that she was captured and discovered was invigorating. It made her feel relieved that she no longer had to worry about hiding her identity. And though she knew she shouldn't push her luck, it was comforting to know that Kurosaki couldn't kill her just yet.

She almost laughed at the thought, that the enemy had hoped to humble her by capturing her like this. Instead, she was liberated. She felt like she could do anything, without the need to hide, without the need to fear for her life. She inhaled the stale, musty air of the cell, and it was intoxicating to her: that the very bars that held her captive were fueling her with confidence.

With that in mind, a new reckless plan began to take shape.

They had taken her sword from her and stripped her plated armor off. But at Kukaku's insistence that she was not to be abused or harmed, the guards hadn't bothered to check inside her uniform for any hidden weapons.

The cloth map was still rolled up and tucked in her clothes. It was a small triumph, a comforting padding against her belly. And, she had her kido.

She counted the hours until the moon rose. On her tiptoes, she peeked out the window and saw that it was a pale curve in the sky.

The guard change took place shortly after and the new guard was a sneering old man who leered at her and spat into her cell.

"Don't even think of escaping," he said when he saw her gripping the bars on the windows, "or I'll have you moved to one of the outdoor cages."

"Wouldn't dream of it," she muttered. "Hey, guard? I have to go to the bathroom."

He pointed to the chamber pot in the corner. "Help yourself. I'm not stopping you."

"But I'm shy," she said sweetly, coming up to the bars of her cell and lowering her lashes demurely. "Couldn't you look away for a few minutes? Surely, you wouldn't make a lady go in front of a stranger?"

"No, I wouldn't. But you're no lady."

She gripped the bars in an imploring gesture and puckered her lips into a little pout. "Please? I won't take long, _promise_."

He snorted. "Fine. Whatever you say, princess." The guard crossed his arms and turned away, so that his back was facing Rukia.

She smiled and raised two fingers. "Hakufuku," she whispered.

Without even reacting, the guard crumbled to the ground.

"Yes!" she cheered quietly, thrilled that her kido hadn't deteriorated in all this time.

As the guard had fallen quite close to the cell, she knelt down and stuck an arm through the bars. Straining for a bit, she managed to hook her fingers around the ring of keys he kept in his belt.

She quickly unlocked the door and stepped out. Half out of spite and half out of good sense, she kicked the guard hard in the head and left a bruise. It was to ensure that whoever found him would think she had overtaken him by force, and not by a kido spell.

After she checked to see that no one had heard the commotion, Rukia shrugged off the outer jacket of her uniform. She then bent down and stripped the guard's coat off, wrapping it around herself. It was too long and trailed to the ground, so Rukia belted it tightly around her waist and tucked the trailing ends into her belt. It was dark blue, almost black, and would help camouflage her in the night.

She snatched up the guard's sword, as they had taken hers.

Slowly and quietly, she stepped out of the makeshift prison and into the rest of Kurosaki's house. Though it was warmer than in the cell, she drew the dark blue coat close to her face.

The hallways were lit by lamps. She could hear voices and footsteps, the chattering of the servants, the clinking of porcelain, the crackling of fires. Quietly, she snuck around, past the lovely wall hangings and wooden furniture, staying clear of the lamplight. Luckily, she managed to avoid the servants, who were strolling through the house with dishes and laundry.

She peeked into the dining hall and caught sight of Kurosaki there, sitting with his friends. Pressing herself to the wall, she took a deep breath to muster her courage.

She made for the staircase that led to his room, hoping her footsteps wouldn't make much noise.

There was a blue-clad guard standing at the top of the stairs, but she cast Hakufuku at the back of his head and caught him before he could crash to the floor. She laid him down and pushed into Kurosaki's bedroom.

She didn't bother to admire the aesthetics of his room this time. Her heart was pounding as she searched the corners of the room. The sword wasn't there anymore and she couldn't feel the tugging presence of it.

She opened the trunks and dug through the linens and silk robes, but found nothing. She even lifted the mattress from the bed frame. There was no sword there, but she found a book that was cleverly tucked into the bottom of the mattress.

Curious, she took it to the window and opened it, reading it by the light of the moon. Her eyes widened when she realized that it was a journal, and the broad, sweeping brushstrokes were Kurosaki's handwriting. She flipped through the pages and the word "sword" caught her eyes several times.

Every single day, I try and try to unleash Zangetsu's true power, but it's harder than I had thought. I train until I am covered with aches and pains, but Zangetsu doesn't respond…

It trailed off. The next bits were written in a language she couldn't understand. Code, probably.

"Could it be…?" she whispered.

Rukia was so engrossed that she failed to hear the soft, dainty footsteps coming up the stairs. Outside, one of the servant girls had arrived with an armful of laundered socks. Thinking the collapsed guard was just sleeping and deciding not to wake him, the girl stepped into the Warlord's room.

The sight of Rukia lurking by the window, face twisted and mottled by bruises and wearing a coat that was obviously stolen, had the poor girl screaming her head off.

"Robber! Thief! Murderer!" the servant shrieked, dropping the socks on the floor and running from the room. Rukia could hear the girl's screams echoing through the stairwell and down below. It was soon followed by the thundering sound of booted feet running up the stairs.

"Damn it," she swore. "I'm certainly unlucky today."

Without hesitation, she thrust the journal down the front of her clothes. She pushed the windows wide open and climbed up on the sill.

Bracing herself, she jumped.

A breathless second later, Rukia hit the ground in a roll. She got up, wincing. The heavy coat had padded her from the icy ground, but she had pulled her shoulder.

But she found that she had little time to nurse her injuries. The house in an uproar and people were already running about, sounding the alarm.

Rukia ran for it, towards the one part of the encampment where the wooden gate was low enough to scale.

Behind her, the camp became ablaze with torches. The flames bobbed and flickered as the soldiers pursued her, bellowing to each other to seize the runaway spy.

She could hear the ringing of metal as swords were pulled out, the cracking of ice as her pursuers stamped across the ground. The air was cold and burned her lungs as she gulped in great mouthfuls, panting as she ran.

Her source of freedom loomed ahead in the darkness. She could see the outline of the wooden posts, the pointed tops that were just low enough for a nimble girl to grab hold of and vault over.

But they flanked her, charging at her with lit torches and spears. The members of her own squad were baying for her blood, as if she were an animal being hunted.

Someone ran at her with a spear. On instinct, she spun to face him and drew her borrowed sword. She parried the blow, but the force of the soldier's thrust sent her reeling back.

A man behind her swung his blazing torch at her head, but she ducked and planted a boot in his groin.

More spearheads, blazing gold and silver in the torchlight, came thrusting towards her and she beat them back with her sword. Her sword was knocked down when someone smashed into with a battleaxe, but she thrust the wooden scabbard into his stomach.

She screamed with rage. She kicked and swung and bit down on any hand that came close to her. She threw her elbow into unprotected faces and slammed her heel into groins, baring her teeth and growling as if she truly were a beast, a beast being cornered and baited, held back by fire and metal.

Lady Rukia Kuchiki, who had spent her youth bound up in silk and tight ribbons, hobbled by tight undergarments, roared her fury so loudly that even the mighty men of the North faltered in their steps. Baited by the blaze of torchlight, with the smoke stinging her eyes, she forgot that she was a small girl of seventeen, a helpless hostage in an enemy camp, even a human being.

But at last, her strength failed her as repeated blows jarred her body to the point of collapse. A shrill, pained cry was torn from her lips when the pole of a spear was slammed downwards into her shoulder. The force was enough to bring her down to one knee, even as she fought to shake it off.

Another spear handle smacked into her other leg, trapping the calf to the ground so she was kneeling. No less than five swords were immediately held to her neck.

Glaring at them, as if they had stripped away her fear as well as her pride, she clenched the scabbard in her hand, ready to do battle with only a flimsy wooden sheath.

A horse's undulating cry and the thundering hoof beats filled the air. Rukia looked up and saw Kurosaki's black stallion rearing and slashing the air with its hooves. She saw the flame of the Warlord's hair, his clenched fist gripping the reins.

His face was as terrible as thunder as he rode straight into the crowd, dispersing the men as if they were insects.

She gasped as the pressure of the spears was lifted from her and she doubled over, panting for breath.

When she looked up again, her vision was filled with nothing but _him_, the Warlord of the North, the man in the bloom of his youth, who carried Zangetsu over his shoulder as if he had been born holding it.

He glared at her and in his eyes, she saw the gleam of fire.

Kurosaki wore a pitch-black cloak that curled about him like smoke. He wore no armor, as if he wasn't afraid of being cut, as if mere swords couldn't even touch him.

She had seen him naked. She had seen him sprawled out in bed without a stitch of clothing. She had felt his hand on her breast and had felt nothing but disgust that night.

Yet, at that moment, she thought she had never seen anything more erotic. At that moment alone, Kurosaki commanded such a savage beauty that it burned her from within, and she felt her desire flare up uncontrollably.

At that moment, he was Fire Personified, mounted on a stallion that was as black as coal, wreathed by fire and smoke. The air around him was lit up with orange sparks, as if his very presence was setting the air on fire.

Even the frost beneath his horse's hooves were painted with orange light and as the stallion stamped the ground, the frost flew up like sparks, belched up from the bowels of the earth.

He glared down at her and raised his sword in the position of a deathblow.

"It's over," he growled, his voice like the rumbling of thunder. "Give it up. I don't really care much for laws, but still, I'd rather not break them if I can help it. So give up, or I'll have to slay a noble after all."

Rukia had spent most of her childhood and teenage years under the scrutinizing, judgmental glares of other nobles. She had been stared at, glared at, whispered about, gossiped about. On her fifteenth birthday, she had stared down a whole roomful of resentful people. She had drunk down a toast to her heath while the people of her brother's court whispered behind their sleeves about her. And when the braver ones dared to challenge her to her face, she had stared them down as well, restrained by the rules against defend herself with fists or vulgar speech.

And now, she stared _him _down, even though he was the leader of his people, even though he towered over her and his stallion's hooves were very close to dashing her brains out.

The pain in her knees and shoulder went ignored. She stood, slowly and deliberately so that he knew she wasn't afraid, that she was refusing to be cowed.

She hardly looked impressive at that moment. Her hair was sticky with sweat and clinging to her face, the scarf barely holding it up anymore. Her stolen cloak was too big and bulged out unattractively, making her look like a fat little blue dumpling. Her face was smudged with dirt and grease, her lips cracked and bleeding.

But even though her hands trembled, she raised the wooden scabbard as if it were a sword and met the challenge in Kurosaki's gaze. Across the ice and fire, she challenged him, with nothing between them except a flimsy wooden scabbard.

In an instant, he had leapt down from his horse and was striding towards her.

She gasped and raised the scabbard to block, but Zangetsu split the thing in half. Her arms shook from the blow and she dove to the ground to retrieve her fallen sword.

Her fingers closed over the cold hilt and she swung it upwards, using the momentum of her dive to add force and speed.

Kurosaki blocked it effortlessly and swung Zangetsu in a counterattack, but she danced away from him and managed to land a glancing blow on his arm.

For a moment, he stopped stared at his torn sleeve in shock. He threw back his head and laughed.

"Nice try."

He moved so quickly she saw nothing but a blur. Within a second, he had knocked the blade from her hands and held Zangetsu's cutting edge against her throat.

She cried out once and froze. The blade was only a hair away from her neck and she could feel the sharpness of it, the power of it.

But he didn't cut off her head, or demand that she surrender. Instead, he drew the length of the sword lightly across her neck so that the blade tickled her, like a caress, like a tease.

He chuckled suddenly. "Open the gates!" he shouted and removed the blade from Rukia's throat. His men scrambled to comply.

She had barely begun to sigh in relief when he raised his sword again. In one downward stroke, he slashed the front of her coat from neck to hem. With his other hand, he reached over and yanked the ruined garment away by the shoulder, tossing it aside.

Frozen and breathless, she could only watch as both the stolen journal and the rolled-up cloth map tumbled to the ground.

"I knew you wouldn't have tried to leave empty-handed," he said, smirking.

"Scoundrel," she breathed.

He laughed again, merrily, as if he were sporting. With the tip of his sword, he pointed towards the open gate.

"Well, Miss Pretend Prostitute, there's your freedom. You _were _escaping, weren't you?"

"W-what are you doing?" she stammered.

"Kindly giving you a choice. You can either stay with me as a noble hostage, or you can leave. You have free passage. Of course, if you leave, you can't take _my _possessions with you." He gestured to the torn coat, the journal, and the makeshift map.

Hesitantly, she took a step towards the opening of the gate. Beyond the walls of the encampment, she could see the trees bending under the wind, branches flayed bare and frozen. She could feel the iciness and knew that she wouldn't survive if she left the protection of the camp, especially without a coat. Especially not in the dark.

And, indeed, she would be leaving empty-handed. All her toils would have been for nothing.

He was toying with her, making her choose between being a prisoner and… nothing.

She shivered. From where she stood, freedom looked like a frozen, empty wasteland.

She turned around and saw Ichigo Kurosaki smirking at her, still wreathed in the flames of the torches.

The alternative, however, was the fires of the Underworld itself.

There she stood, balanced between ice and fire, and she shivered and burned at the same time. There _he _stood, sword hefted, the line of his shoulders arrogant as always, the world on fire around him.

She took a step forward. "I… I'll stay."

He smiled.

With a swift downward stab, he planted Zangetsu into the ground, cracking ice and earth.

Before she could react, he reached for her and scooped her up in his arms as if she weighed nothing. As she squeaked in protest and beat her fists against him, he swung her over his shoulder and carried her to his horse.

Effortlessly, he vaulted into the saddle and tossed her face down in front of him, like a bag of rice.

Kurosaki jerked on the reins so that his stallion reared up with a scream. He took off in a frenzied, triumphant gallop around the camp, fist raised high, whooping as if he had captured the head of Byakuya Kuchiki himself.

All Rukia could do was hold on for dear life.

…..

Thank you so much for reading! Please review!


	6. Chapter 6

Disclaimer: I don't own Bleach or any Bleach characters. This fanfiction is for entertainment purposes only and no profit is being made.

Warnings: This fic will contain violence, gore, bad language, sex, a relationship that's abusive on both sides, and other mature themes. The main pairings are Rukia/Ichigo and Rukia/Byakuya.

….

Chapter 6:

"Who said you could sleep on my bed?"

"You did, when you decided to take me hostage, remove my weapons, and forbid me to go outside. You owe me your bed."

"Get off."

"You're a real selfish grouch, you know that?"

Ichigo sighed.

The first time he'd seen her, she was just another nameless, perfumed dancer. From that, she had turned into a rather awkward, skinny country girl who said odd things but was pretty in her own way. Pretty enough to be memorable, at least. But on _that_ night, when she had turned the whole camp on its head and fought her way through dozens of men, she had been magnificent.

Rising to his challenge with the gleam of fire in her eyes, she had raised her scabbard against him as if she would cut him down, uncaring that she was a skinny, teenaged girl holding a flimsy piece of wood against his Zangetsu. She had been magnificent.

But now, he only wanted to throttle her.

"Get _off_," he repeated through his teeth.

She merely sighed and turned over, kicking at the sheets with her small, callused feet.

"You know, I could easily just throw you in a cell," he said. "As long as I don't kill you, of course."

She ignored him.

He didn't throw her in a cell, but simply gritted his teeth and continued writing at his desk.

The army had moved on. They were in a new encampment, built around a new house that was almost as big as a castle. It was simply called the Red Maple, and Ichigo's father had once used it as a fortress against the Southern army. The very stones of the house were steeped in a history of blood.

Ichigo's soldiers had arrived on a freezing winter's morning and cut down trees, erected tents, and worked night and day to build a new gate, new watchtowers, new granaries.

The house was aired, its doors and windows thrown open, the cloth from the furniture all removed, everything was scrubbed from top to bottom. The hearths were fired up as hot as the kitchen staff could manage, but the house always remained drafty, damp, and cold. Such was the disadvantage of a house built for a siege.

Ichigo particularly hated the chill and had the braziers in his room burning brightly through the night so he wouldn't wake up to find his blankets half-frozen. As such, his bedroom was the warmest in the entire house.

But while the other members of the household simply hung around the outside Warlord's rooms, stealing what warmth they could, Kiyone Kotetsu was the only one brave enough to walk right in, duck under the guards, and fling herself into his toasty bed while Ichigo and his advisors stared on in shock.

The first time he had seen her like this, curled up in his sheets like a contented cat, he had laughed at her sheer audacity. His laughter quickly turned to anger when he realized that she refused to budge.

"My room is freezing, you selfish louse," she growled, as he attempted to pull the comforter away from her. "My washing basin was filled with ice. I nearly broke my hand trying to crack it enough so I could wash. I hardly slept last night because I was shivering!"

It was a ridiculous sight, the Warlord of the North, in his heavy silk robes, engaged in tug-of-war with the skinny Southern girl while his advisors stared from the next room and his guards stood aside, utterly confused as to what to do.

Kiyone had regained her comforter with a triumphant cry and wrapped it around herself like a silkworm spinning a cocoon. He would have pulled her bodily from his bed, but within a minute, she had tucked the pillow under her chin and fallen asleep, looking as sweet as a bun.

By that afternoon, the people of his household were whispering about how _cruel _the Warlord was, how he had _forced _Lady Kotetsu to sleep in a cold room, how he had been so _terrible _to _refuse _to give up his own bed for her comfort. That Kiyone Kotetsu had charmed his household staff was obvious when his rice ended up soggy at dinnertime.

The next day, she tumbled into his bed again in the middle of the morning, despite the fact that he had made sure to provide her with her very own brazier and her very own coal. It happened again the next day, and the next, no matter how hard he protested.

"What, are you afraid I'll poison your sheets? Hide a dagger under your pillow? Slip a snake in your bed?" she said, looking up at him from where she lay, eyes bright amidst the tangle of hair, limbs, and silk. And of course, he had to declare quite loudly that he _wasn't _afraid of her and that he would thrash her within an inch of her life if she didn't get out right that minute.

She didn't, and he learned to expect the daily interruptions, to see her barrel in, huffing miserably into her cold hands and throw herself into his bed.

It wasn't the only problem she caused for him.

Though Kiyone Kotetsu had seemed quite tame while the entire company traveled to the Red Maple, the moment they released her from the saddle and showed her to her rooms, she seemed to take it upon herself to make Ichigo's life difficult.

She demanded women's clothes, claiming that it was improper that she still wore men's clothes when everyone already knew she was a girl. Unfortunately for him, everyone else agreed, including his advisors and high-ranking officers.

She refused to wear anything borrowed from the household maids or the courtesans, so the money for the silk, thread, beads, and tailors had to come from Ichigo's own pockets. A variety of kimono, cloaks, jackets, and shoes weren't enough for her.

Lady Kotetsu demanded hats and fur to trim her jackets. She demanded more and more silk for her ribbons, shawls, and veils, and then, in the middle of the night, twisted the silk into a rope and tried to escape from her window. She was caught, of course, before she reached the ground and was hauled back in.

She demanded expensive paper, brushes, and ink, claiming that she wanted to practice calligraphy, and was well on her way to mapping out the entire encampment and several of the surrounding villages before the guards caught on. They confiscated the writing tools at first, but she charmed them into letting her write and draw, as long as one of them supervised.

She called for a bottle of sleeping medicine, claiming that the cold was preventing her from falling asleep. In the middle of the night, she held the ceramic bottle over the brazier's flame and used the fumes to lull the guards asleep instead. Yet, when she was captured and brought back later, the guards were forgiving enough to pat her on the back and tell her it was a "damned good trick."

She charmed and she schemed, though Ichigo suspected that she didn't even realize the depths of her allure. She was as alluring as she was frustrating, inducing affection and anger at the same time. Anyone who laid eyes on her had moments when they wanted to love her and hate her at the same time.

But it was a unique type of seduction that snared those around her. Kiyone Kotetsu was unlike Orihime Inoue, one of the loveliest and most seductive courtesans Ichigo had ever met.

From the top of her head, to the tips of her fingers, and down to the arches of her dainty feet, Orihime exuded sensual beauty. She was the kind of woman who knew how to tilt her chin the right way, how to flutter her lashes, how to purse her lips into just the right shape to draw the arrow of desire that could pierce a man's heart from a hundred paces. She was the kind that knew how to arch her slim back so that anyone who looked at her could think of nothing but sex.

Kiyone Kotetsu knew none of these things, yet the men and women of Ichigo's household swarmed to her like moths to a flame. His favorite red-haired courtesan drew men to her like flies to honey, gluttonous and drunk with desire, all buzzing for a taste of her. Lady Kotetsu wasn't like honey, but like a flame, bright and hot so that the moths were drawn helplessly in, enchanted by the mystery and the heat, despite the danger of being burned.

Ichigo's advisors and generals distrusted and hated his new hostage, of course. They pleaded for him to ransom her off and be done with her, or simply just tie her to a horse and send her to beg for shelter in the nearest village. To the high-ranking officials, a female prisoner that was clever enough to have snuck her way into the army and almost escape with military information was like a baited, wounded bear, snarling as the hunters cornered it: within their power but too dangerous to be left alive.

But Ichigo didn't ransom her or exile her to the outer villages. He kept her, partly because he himself was like a moth, slowly drawn into the flame that was Kiyone Kotetsu. Day by day, he began to expect her to come in and snuggle into his bed, doze through the frosty daylight hours, and leave well before he invited any other women in for the night.

"Who _is _that, anyway?" she said, pointing upwards at the painting on the wall. She had just woken up from her nap. Her eyes were drooping and the afternoon sun was in her face.

For the second time, Ichigo abandoned his writing and turned to look at the painting of Rukia Kuchiki.

The painting had been carried to the Red Maple along with his other possessions. It had been rolled up and tucked into its own enameled box, then wrapped in a waterproof canvas. It was one of the first things to be unpacked, and now it hung on the wall facing south, as it had before.

Ichigo gazed at the portrait, admiring how the light shone on the creamy paper, the colors of the kimono, the delicate lines of her face.

"That," he said, "is Lady Rukia Kuchiki. She is … was my betrothed."

He whispered the last word, as if the very sound of it was precious to him.

"L-lady Rukia Kuchiki? From Byakuya Kuchiki's family?" said the girl, in an odd voice. She stood so the covers fell off her shoulder and she was standing barefoot on the floor. Her eyes were fixed on the portrait.

"Yes. We were engaged years ago, when the old peace treaty was signed. She was a child when I last met her."

He could still remember her, how she had looked up at him with those big, round eyes. How she had bowed with all the gracefulness of a child and almost toppled over. They had held hands briefly, more of a formality than anything, but he had grasped her small, dimpled hand with all the pride of a bridegroom on his wedding day, puffing out his chest and standing as tall as he could.

They had parted after that first meeting, but she had always stayed on his mind and lingered in his dreams. Over the years, letters from the South, no matter how mundane, had always spared a few lines to say that Lady Rukia was blooming into a flower of beauty, that she was growing into a sweet, pretty, demure, and simply _wonderful _woman who knew how to dance and sing and perform the tea ceremony and compose poetry along with a hundred other things

In his youth, Ichigo often stole his father's letters so he could read about _her_, and he often fell asleep with the paper pillowed under his cheek and woke up with ink-stains. There had also been letters directly addressed to him from Rukia, of course, but he knew that the painfully neat calligraphy and the flowery prose weren't actually hers. Still, he kept them for the slightly smudged signatures at the end, done in a shaky, inexperienced hand.

From Byakuya Kuchiki's court, came rolls and rolls of portraits, paintings of Rukia, all beautiful, all wonderful. But it was his favorite that hung on the south wall of his room, the one that depicted her in that deep purple kimono, hair falling down her back like water, eyes lowered, lips blushing.

He had a boxful of the little gifts that were sent on her behalf: rings, jade beads, pieces of tortoiseshell, a poem written on colored paper, a silk handkerchief. They stopped coming when the engagement was cancelled, but he held onto them as if they were family heirlooms.

He had fallen in love with Rukia Kuchiki from the day he met her, the little girl with hair as dark as ink. And over the years, he had fallen deeper in love with her, with the idea that they were meant to be together, joined by destiny to end the war and bring peace.

When his father died and the betrothal was voided, Ichigo had been heartbroken, but he hadn't given up.

"With our marriage, we were to bring peace," he wrote in his journal, on the very night of the annulment. "If this cannot be done, then with peace, I will bring about our marriage. Peace, through my victory."

"_That_ is Rukia Kuchiki?" came the incredulous voice of Kiyone Kotetsu, jarring him from his thoughts.

"Yes. Who else?" he said, growing annoyed with her.

"_That _is supposed to be Rukia Kuchiki?" she demanded, pointing up at the painted lady, who was looking demurely down at her clasped hands.

To his surprise, she doubled over in a great bellow of laughter.

"Are you mocking me?" he said angrily, and got up from his chair.

She laughed and laughed, clutching at her belly, her whole body shaking with mirth, tears leaking out from her eyes.

"Why are you laughing?" he demanded. "Tell me! Why are you laughing?"

"Ohhh, Heavens," she gasped, and wiped at her cheeks. "Oh, my. This is…" She glanced upwards at the painting and burst into laughter again.

"Shut up!" he snapped.

"I can't believe it!" she cackled, jumping from foot to foot as if the hilarity could barely be contained. "_You, _engaged to _that_? _You_? Hah!"

"What the hell do you mean by that? You think she's too good for me? You think she's too beautiful for me? Tell me, you stupid wench!"

She practically skipped up to him. Her eyes were alight with mischief.

"Yes," she said, leaning close enough for him to see the corners of her smug little smile. "I've seen her. And she is beautiful. In fact, she's the most beautiful woman in the world. But even if she were the ugliest woman in the world, you'd have no chance with Lady Rukia, because there's no way she'd marry a scoundrel like you."

He growled and reached for her, intending to shake her until her teeth rattled, but Kiyone danced away from him, still chuckling.

"You shut up," he said. "What the hell do you know, you cross dresser? She _will _marry me when this war is done. It's a promise."

"Oh?" said Kiyone, perking up. "Has she promised to marry you?"

"Rukia was promised _to _me. And I was promised to her. Byakuya Kuchiki and my father drew up the contract."

She laughed again, spinning around on the spot like a dancer. "Idiot. You can promise someone a horse, or a carriage, or a house. Rukia Kuchiki isn't a _horse_, so don't expect such a stupid promise to last."

"Oh, shut up. What do you know? You're no lady. You're cross dresser. You're hardly even a real girl!"

"At least I'm no horse," she said, and pranced out of his room without another word.

He stared after her, not knowing quite what to think. She had unsettled him with her words, and he hated being unsettled.

Angrily, he tossed his pen aside and it made an ugly stain on his desk. He couldn't do any more work for the rest of the day.

And for some reason, he didn't find it as serene as he usually did when he gazed at Rukia's portrait. And at night, he dreamt of _her_, the Southern girl who had danced into his life and left him feeling unsettled, the girl with hair as black as ink.

She didn't come tumbling into his bed the next day, but he saw her again that afternoon.

It was a blustery day and he came in from long hours of training, face half-frozen and hands red with the cold.

Stripping off his armor and handing his sword to a servant, he immediately made for the kitchen so he could warm himself up at the roaring hearth.

He stopped short when he saw that Kiyone Kotetsu was there, sitting with the other girls and chatting as if she belonged there. It was painfully obvious that she was the outsider, to anyone who looked, friendly though they seemed. Her hair and eyes were dark, and she wore the plummy purple of Byakuya Kuchiki's court. The others seemed plain compared to her, decked out in matching red uniforms.

There was a pile of sweet dough in the middle of the table, and they were all taking pinches of it and rolling the dough into nuggets. Kiyone's fingers were dusted with flour, and there were streaks of it on her cheeks. She was sitting close to the fire and had kicked off her shoes so she could warm her feet.

"Idiots!" he snapped, and two of the girls shrieked in surprise. "You let her in the kitchen? She's a spy! The enemy, in case you've forgotten! What if she poisons us all?"

The oldest of the kitchen maids bobbed her brown head into a bow and stammered, "M-my deepest apologies, Your Highness! It was my fault. I should have known better. P-please don't punish the others."

"That's right, you should have known better! I should have all of you turned out for this! Have you forgotten all the trouble she was responsible for? What kind of half-witted, irresponsible-"

He didn't get to finish his sentence before the "spy" in question jumped between him and the trembling kitchen girl.

"Leave her alone!" Kiyone shouted at him and dared to poke him in the chest. The other girls gasped at her show of boldness and looked ready to faint.

"Wh-what?" was all Ichigo managed.

She was brandishing a long-handled spoon at him. "I said, leave her alone! What kind of a brute yells at his servants? If you have a problem with me being here, then yell at me!"

He was taken aback and actually retreated a few steps. Her violet eyes glinted like knives as they faced each other over the battlefield of the flour-dusted floor.

The servant flailed and fell to the floor on hands and knees, uttering a wordless cry. "No, Lady Kotetsu! Oh, please don't contradict the Warlord. I'm sorry, Your Highness, please forgive me! It's my fault! I will accept whatever punishment you see fit-"

"Enough," he said softly, holding up a hand to silence her. He stared into Kiyone's eyes and saw the burn of passion. Her wrist twitched and she raised her "weapon" an inch higher. He had no doubts that she would gladly shove it down his throat if he so much as made the wrong move. There was danger in every inch of her, and at that moment, he knew that there would always be a battle between them, in the kitchen, on the battlefield, across the frozen ground of the encampment, anywhere and always.

He knew then, even as she trembled from both fear and anger, that she had captured him, as a flame captures a moth. He knew that he was ensnared in the tumultuous adventure that was Kiyone Kotetsu.

"Enough. Get up, Miss. Lady Kotetsu is right. I'm sorry for yelling. No punishment will be necessary."

Kiyone blinked in surprise.

Ignoring the servant girl, who was pressing her forehead into the dust and crying out her gratitude for his kindness, Ichigo took a step closer so that he could feel the heat from her body, like the warmth of a fire.

"After all," he whispered, "you wouldn't poison me, would you? Hm?"

"No…" she said, still taken aback by his sudden shift in mood. "I… w-well, I suppose you'll find out, won't you?"

"I suppose I will. Michiru," he said, nodding at one of the other girls, who jumped and hurried to bow, pale-faced. "Gather up a handful of those and boil them for me. I'm feeling adventurous today. Won't you join me, Lady Kotetsu, for a bowl of poisoned dumplings?"

X

There was a man standing in the middle of the road. At least, Renji thought it was a man.

The freezing wind was blowing hard in his face and he found it difficult to open his eyes. Everything around him, the trees, the frost, the bits of loose dirt, had been lashed by the wind into a cold, gray frenzy. He could barely see as he rode his horse down the road.

But the figure, blurry and dark in the midst of whirling gray, was undoubtedly a man. And if Renji didn't stop soon, he would be riding straight into him.

"Who are you?" he called out. His voice was hoarse with thirst and weariness. If the stranger heard his voice over the wind, Renji couldn't tell.

"A-are you a ghost?" he whispered, when the figure swayed and seemed to disappear. He pulled the reins back so that his horse whinnied in protest and stopped, stamping the ground with its hooves.

Rubbing his eyes, Renji placed a hand on his sword hilt. His senses felt dulled by the cold, and he hated that he was too tired to be alert.

"Over here," someone said softly, and Renji twisted around in shock to see the man on his right side, so close that the stranger was nearly touching his elbow.

"Stay back!" Renji shouted and drew his sword. He brought it down, but the man leapt backwards and avoided the blow, landing lightly a few feet away.

"Don't be alarmed," said the stranger. His robes were flapping about him in the wind as if they were alive. A straw hate obscured most of his features, but it seemed the stranger had no plans to keep his identity hidden, as he lifted the brim high enough for Renji to get a good glimpse.

Renji squinted at the familiar face. "You're…"

"That's right. I'm Shunsui Kyoraku. And you're Lieutenant Abarai, correct?"

"General Kyoraku!" Renji gasped. "What do you want with me?" He looked around, trying to discern the shape of other troops in the grayness.

"I simply wish to speak with you."

"Like hell!" Renji growled, tightening his grip on the sword hilt. "Why would a general as famous as you want to speak with me? I'm not falling for it. Your men are probably hiding somewhere, ready to ambush me, right?"

Kyoraku sighed and lowered the hat over his eyes again. "I'm sorry, but I'd rather not waste time arguing."

Before Renji could blink, Kyoraku had leapt up and was now coming at him.

The lieutenant tried to raise his sword, but the next thing he knew, Kyoraku was face-to-face with him. He felt a slight push on his chest, a slight touch on his wrist, and suddenly, he was flung out of the saddle and landed hard on the ground.

Dizzy, Renji looked up and saw that Kyoraku was standing calmly over him. His horse, strangely enough, was completely unperturbed, as if nothing had happened.

Renji tried to grab for his sword, but realized that Kyoraku was holding it, having taken it from him in the scuffle. The General hadn't even drawn his own weapons.

"What are you going to do?" Renji whispered. "Are you going to kill me?"

One second, Kyoraku's was standing before him, robes billowing in the wind. The next, the general had the sword at Renji's heart and was so close that Renji could see the curve of his smile.

'I want to tell you that I know Rukia Kuchiki is in Kurosaki's camp."

X

Orihime Inoue blew on her numb fingers. Her back was aching from sitting in the saddle so long.

The wind blew and ruffled her hair, making it twist and tangle with itself. Sighing, she ran her fingers through it. Her hair had long since fell out of its neat bun and it was blowing about her face mercilessly.

She wasn't quite as pretty as usual at that moment. Her nose was red from the cold and she had been wiping it with a crumpled handkerchief. Rather than the soft smile that she had trained her face to have, she now looked rather sullen.

Her horse neighed softly and shifted. Orihime bent down to pat its warm, soft mane.

At the line of trees to her left, Shunsui Kyoraku appeared.

"So there you are," said Orihime. She was unable to keep the annoyance out of her voice. "You invited me to go out riding, but all we've done is come to this desolate place and I've been waiting for you all this time. Where were you, anyway?"

"My apologies, Miss Inoue," he said cheerfully, untying his own horse from a nearby tree. "I needed to stop and greet a friend."

"You took a long time for just a greeting."

Kyoraku chuckled, slipped his foot into the stirrup, and lifted himself into the saddle. He brushed the shoulder of his cloak, knocking away some dust. Lightly, he tapped the horse's sides with his heels and they rode on.

"Well, Miss Inoue, I'll make it up to you. There's quite a nice spot up ahead. We could have a picnic."

"A picnic?" said Orihime, eyes narrowing in disbelief. "In this weather?"

She stopped abruptly, so he stopped too and turned in the saddle to look at her.

"General," she said, "if I weren't absolutely certain of your good intentions, I'd think you were deliberately trying to keep me away from my duties with all these outings."

"Oh, no," he said, "my intentions are purely selfish. Why would I need an ulterior motive to spend time with such a lovely lady?" He smiled at her. "Besides, I'm sure you'd actually enjoy some time away from stuffy old Ichigo."

Orihime sighed, and nudged her horse forward with her knee. "You shouldn't insult His Highness. It's too cold to be out, anyway. I'd rather go home, if you please."

"As you wish," he said, and pulled his hat lower over his eyes. He watched her ride off ahead of him, her pale-gray cloak blending into the colors of the forest so that she seemed like a Winter Fairy.

X

Ichigo visited Kiyone Kotetsu's rooms and saw her sewing veils onto her hats. The maids were working dutifully with her, all of them leaning towards Kiyone as if she were a fire and they were warming themselves on her.

She commanded her chamber as if she were a queen and they were her ladies-in-waiting, as if she wasn't a hostage in an enemy camp, surrounded by a group of kitchen maids.

"I'll be needing them," she explained, gesturing to the hats, "since Your Highness has so graciously allowed me to walk in the gardens."

There was a slight drawl in her voice when she said "Your Highness," as if she was mocking him. But it might have been the roll of her accent, and Ichigo shrugged it off.

"Is there anything you need?" he asked. "I can't give you the satisfaction of calling me a poor host, after all."

"Why, Lord Kurosaki," she said sweetly, "are you implying that I'm a guest? I thought I was a hostage."

"You're both," he replied. "Don't think otherwise."

"Well, I don't need anything, thanks," she said, and inclined her dark head.

When she took her walk later, he watched her from his window. Her guards flanked her on either side, both of them fully armed. Ichigo couldn't see her face, as it was covered by the filmy pink silk of her veil. But he could see the vague shadow of her jaw from behind the cloth, and he imagined her smiling as she reached out to touch a branch, shaking it so that the teardrop icicles clinked together.

The pond was frozen over, but she tossed pebbles into it anyway and watched them skid across the cracked surface. One of the guards spread his cape out on the stone bench for her to sit, and she lingered there for a while, staring at the empty flowerbeds.

Ichigo felt a slight pang, watching her roam about this enclosed space. Even though she was outdoors, she still looked trapped, like a bird in a cage. Her sleeves fluttered in the wind, and it looked like she was fluttering her wings, longing for the sky.

It became a routine for her. After breakfast each day, she would put on the warmest cloak she had and slip on her hat, pull the veil around her face, and set out into the whirling coldness. The guards attended to her always, and sometimes, one of the servant girls would come with her and they would walk the perimeter of the garden, arm-in-arm for warmth.

Kiyone took to wearing platforms on her shoes, probably to keep her feet far above the freezing ground, and Ichigo got used to seeing the top of her head raised taller than usual.

"Fair weather, isn't it?" he called out to her one day, when he met her in the garden on his way back inside. Her hat bobbed in the wind when she turned to him.

Michiru, the kitchen maid was standing next to her. For once, they looked the same height, shoulder-to-shoulder, due to the boost from Kiyone's shoes.

Kiyone didn't speak, but simply raised a gloved hand and waved. He thought that she smiled from behind her veil.

"May I walk with you?" he asked. Michiru looked hesitant and tightened her grip on Kiyone's arm.

"Certainly," said Kiyone, and gently pulled away from Michiru. The guards bowed and backed away as Ichigo walked over and tucked Kiyone's hand into the crook of his elbow.

The wooden platforms of her shoes clunked on the ground as he led her across the courtyard, past the drooping trees and the stone fountains.

"Are you well?" he asked.

"Yes, quite well," she said. Her voice was like the whisper of a breeze, soft and titillating on his neck.

"A funny thing happened today," he said conversationally. "A few days ago, I asked one of my advisors to get me information on the Kotetsu family. Your family."

He looked hard at her, but could see no reaction other than slight turn of her head. The veil hid her features so that he couldn't see if her eyes had widened, if her lips had thinned.

"Oh?"

"Today, he reported back to me and told me there was no such name among the Southern noble families. Now, how can that be, Miss Kotetsu?"

"He was mistaken, obviously," she said, and pulled her hand from his arm.

He tightened his grip and pulled her back to face him.

"Who are you, really?" he demanded.

"Kiyone Kotetsu," she said. Her voice was hard and he felt her fingers dig into his arm. "I already told you, your idiot of an advisor made a mistake."

"Really? He is usually such a capable man."

"Well today, he was a fool. Don't insult me by questioning whether my family exists or not."

She made to pull away again but he caught her wrist. "If I find out that you've been lying to me, I might decide that you're too much trouble to keep. Your life is in my hands, _Lady Kotetsu_, and I could easily have these two guards here strangle you to death if you cross me."

He was surprised at the viciousness of his won words. He expected her to wilt. He expected her to shrink back and plead for her life. Instead, she drew herself up to her full height and stepped even closer to him, so that her veil touched his face each time it puffed out with her breathing.

"Do it!" she hissed. "I dare you!"

She was a quivering pillar of passion, and Ichigo found himself breathing hard in the face of her anger. He was filled with the urge to see her face, transformed by emotion, those violet eyes wide and glinting, her cheeks flushed with blood. She was only truly magnificent when she wore that face, when she was bursting with passion.

Impatient, he reached out and snatched at her veil.

She slapped his hand away. "How dare you!"

He could see the darkness of her eyes, glaring at him from behind that pink cloth, smoldering like coals.

"I've brought a gift for you," he said suddenly. She recoiled a bit, obviously surprised at the change of subject.

Ichigo reached into his pocket and pulled out a ribbon. He pinched the ends with his fingers and held its length out for her to see.

It was dark red, the color of his House, the red that his soldiers wore in battle and the red of his banners.

Embroidered across it in gold thread was a stylized wolf. Its elongated body ran half the length of the ribbon and its maw was opened, exposing teeth and tongue. Its stretching claws wrapped around the other half and its eye was a single, tiny seed pearl, sewn into the cloth.

Kiyone's breath came out in a hiss.

The Southern lands were known for their sheep. Quite a large portion of their trade relied on wool and wool products. All the richest families owned their own flocks and spun their own wool. Naturally, wild wolves were considered a threat to any shepherd, so much that traditional Southern superstition told of a wolf-headed demon. Images of wolves were considered unlucky.

To any other girl, the ribbon would have been quite a lovely gift. But to someone from the South, such as the so-called Lady Kotetsu, it might as well have been an open insult.

"How nice," she said in a toneless voice, refusing to rise to the bait.

"Shall I put it on for you?" he said.

"Why not?"

He smiled. "Please lift your veil."

But she didn't give him the satisfaction of seeing the anger in her face. She took the ends of the veil and delicately lifted it to her chin, exposing only her neck.

She allowed him to flick open the collar of her cloak and push down the fabric that was bunched up around her throat. Her skin was hot under his fingers as he slid the ribbon around her neck and fastened it. His hands lingered for a second and he could feel her pulse on the back of his knuckles.

Kiyone shivered as he pulled away, in what he thought was desire. The ribbon, red as blood, stood out starkly against her skin. He saw the glint of the pearl as she lowered the veil back down, fixed her cloak.

"Michiru," she called softly, and the servant trotted up immediately. They took each other's arms again and Kiyone continued her walk, leaving him behind. It was only after she left that he realized he was panting and his tongue felt dry.

Ichigo watched her go for a moment, then turned to return to the house. There was an odd disappointment in his chest. He had set out to shake her up, to unsettle her as she had unsettled him. He had wanted to embarrass her, rile her, but it only took the sight of her neck to reduce him to a similar state.

He kicked at a stray rock.

Slowly, he trudged back to his chambers, only to stop in shock when he got there.

To an outsider's eye, nothing would seem amiss, but Ichigo knew the signs of tampering. He knew that someone had broken in and messed around with his things. The papers on his writing desk were just slightly in disarray, the drawers just slightly open.

Rushing over, he opened the drawers to his desk. Besides several marked military maps, his journal was missing, as he suspected.

He flung open the window that overlooked the garden. There, sitting quietly on the stone bench, was Kiyone Kotetsu. The two guards were leaning on a nearby tree, looking tired and half-asleep. Michiru was nowhere to be seen.

Ichigo narrowed his eyes. It came to him, then, the reason for the veils, the form-concealing cloaks, the wooden platforms on her shoes. It came to him why she took her walks with Michiru, the closest in size to her out of all the other servants.

With a curse, he dashed out of his room, down the stairs, and out the house. He stormed his way into the garden and approached the stone bench.

As he expected, the guards weren't actually asleep, but knocked out and propped against the tree to look as if they were still standing. Both of them sported purple bruises on their temples.

"Idiots," Ichigo growled. "How the hell did one skinny little girl beat the both of you?"

He turned to the veiled figure on the bench. With a swipe, he knocked the hat off her head and the veil went fluttering to the ground.

"Of course," he sighed.

It was Michiru, the kitchen girl. Her hands and feet were tied up beneath the cloak and she was gagged with the red ribbon he had gifted Kiyone with. The wolf's pearl eye seemed to wink mockingly at him as the rich embroidery was soiled with the girl's saliva.

Though, from the triumphant gleam in her eye and her lackluster struggling, Ichigo suspected that the ropes were mostly for show.

"Damn it!" he cursed, and took off again, calling for his guards. "Sound the alarm! The hostage has escaped with confidential information!"

As his men fanned out across the encampment, Ichigo himself headed towards the main gate. He silently cursed himself for his own stupidity, his carelessness.

There was a train of people leaving through the front gates. Merchants and messengers mostly, along with the soldiers who were going on leave. He spotted her, near the end of the line.

She was wearing Michiru's uniform and was leading a horse by the reins.

"Kiyone Kotetsu!" Ichigo shouted as loud as he could. "Stop right there!"

She whirled around, startled that she had been caught. But instead of running, she glared at him, drew her hood tighter about her head, and leapt onto her stolen horse.

Even as the soldiers rushed at her with their spears, she pulled the reins so that her horse reared up and beat its hooves at them, making her enemies scatter before her.

Ichigo heard her cry out and dig her heels into the beast's sides. She took off at a gallop towards the gate, looking fully prepared to run anyone down.

As Ichigo sprinted towards his escaping hostage, more men ran to cut her off, spearheads lunging dangerously close to her body. The air was filled with the horse's high-pitched whinny as it twisted to avoid being skewered

"No one harm her!" Ichigo shouted. He sprinted towards the scene and the men scattered before him like frightened birds.

"Give it up already!" he snarled, planting himself firmly in front of her.

"Get out of my way!" she shot back, and drew a dagger from her waist.

He sidestepped away from her horse's hooves and grabbed her arm. As she shrieked and kicked, he dragged her off her horse and to the ground. With one hand, he wrestled her into a painful grip. With the other, he reached into her clothes and groped around until he found both the bundle of military maps and his journal, ignoring her cries of outrage.

"Get these back to my office," he ordered one of the guards, and passed him the stolen things.

Kiyone snarled and swung her dagger at him but it only grazed his arm, and he wrenched it away from her.

"Let go of me! Let _go!_" she shrieked, as he yanked her to her feet and started dragging her back to the house like she was a troublesome child.

The guards who had gathered to help the Warlord secure the prisoner recognized their leader's black rage, and parted before him. More than one of them gulped and wiped their foreheads as Ichigo passed, hauling the girl behind him.

Ichigo set a merciless pace, uncaring that she slipped continuously and had to struggle not to fall. He knew he was bruising her and didn't care. Neither did he care that she was breathlessly cursing him the entire time, fighting tooth and nail to get free.

"You know, Kiyone, I've had people beheaded for less than what you've done, you ungrateful little…!"

"Get your filthy hands off me you evil, twisted, _beast _of a man! I'll kill…!"

"…thumbscrews! I should have you flogged! See how you like it when you're thrown in a cell and left to rot, you…!"

"I hate you! I hope you die, you scum! I hope…!"

A servant sprang ahead of them and threw open the door as they reached the house. Kiyone dug her heels in and he had to push her over the threshold, making her trip and bang her knee.

"Ow! _Bastard_! You turd-licking, donkey-faced…!"

"…bitch! Death is too good for you! I should have your feet boiled in oil!"

"I'll boil your _balls_, you scum-eating…!"

Their ferocious bickering echoed off the walls and sent the servants running to get out of their way. The wooden staircase thumped with their combined footfalls as he started to drag her up the stairs.

"…little witch! She-demon from hell!"

"Unhand me! How dare you touch me, you pig, you uncouth, disgusting…!"

Both panted as they finally reached her room. He thrust open the doors with his fist and flung her from him so that she stumbled and stood doubled over inside, gasping for breath.

"Unfortunately," he said through gritted teeth, "the law prevents me from killing you, no matter how I want to at the moment. So until either the law changes or I find out somehow that you're actually _not _a noble, I'm stuck keeping you alive. But make no mistake, it's perfectly within my power toabuse you to the point of death, so you'd better keep from making me mad, understand? From now on, you'll stay here and only here. Try anything like that again, try even taking a single step from this room, and I'll make you suffer beyond your worst nightmares."

Instead of shrinking back in the face of his fury, she surged up and grabbed fistfuls of his kimono.

"Just you try and keep me here!" she yelled. She looked half-crazed as she shook him back and forth. Spittle was flying from her mouth. "Just you try!"

He struck her in the face with the back of his hand and sent her flying. With a sharp cry and a thud, she fell to the floor.

He heard her cough, saw her shift upwards to look at him with those big, violet eyes.

He expected tears. He expected her to wail and nurse her cheek like a child.

What he wasn't expecting was for her to get up and come at him with a running leap. What he wasn't expecting was for her to kick him hard in the chest, hard enough to knock the wind out of him and send him sprawling, and then _continue _kicking at him while screaming the obscenities of a common street thug.

"Oof!" he gasped, as her small feet impacted again and again with his ribs. He gritted his teeth over the sharp pain, while she kept it up for what seemed an eternity.

"…your mother's tit!" she finished with a shriek.

Ichigo coughed and spat out a small amount of blood. He uncurled and glared at her. Then, as if he had just registered the utter absurdity of what she had said, he blinked and said, "Wait, what?"

He started laughing, though it pained him. "What the hell did you just say? Damn…"

"Are you laughing at me?" she demanded hoarsely. She swung her foot weakly but he caught it.

"Stop," he said, a great deal calmer than before. "You got me. Just stop already." He yanked her foot and made her fall on her rump with a squeak.

He chuckled again and rolled over so that he was staring at the ceiling. He smiled as the blood dried on his lips. Next to him, he could hear her panting raggedly. He could hear her wiping her face with her hand, the slick sound of skin. He could smell the sweat on her.

A shadow fell on his face and he opened his eyes to see her leaning over him. Her rage had died down and now she seemed rather fearful and nervous.

"A-are you alright?" she whispered. She winced right after she spoke. "Ugh. It really hurts. I think I sprained something."

A drop of sweat ran down from her hairline, down her cheek and off her chin. It fell and dripped onto Ichigo's face. He could feel the heat from her body, as clearly as if they were both naked and pressed up against each other.

All of a sudden, he felt as if he'd been washed in cooling rain. With some surprise, he realized that the odd, unsettled feeling was no longer there. The itch that she had set burning in his belly was soothed.

She was so close. He was lost in the violet pools of her eyes.

But she pushed away from him and rolled over so that she was curled up like a shrimp.

"Hey!" he called loudly, to the guards he knew were standing outside but had been too frightened to enter. They poked their heads in, like nervous mice looking around a corner. "Get us the physician. Hah, look at what we've done to each other. And make sure to tend to Mistress Kiyone. I'm sure I heard one of her toes break while she was kicking the tar out of me."

X

Rukia sighed as she brushed her long, black hair. She looked at her reflection in the mirror.

A bruise marred her right cheek. A few scabbing cuts were scattered here and there. She licked her chapped lips to bring some pinkness back to them and wished she had some of the sweet-smelling balm that she used on her lips back home.

Another face in the reflection caught her attention, and she turned slightly to see her new guard standing quietly across the room.

After her last escapade and the following brawl, Kurosaki had dismissed her two guards, deeming them incompetent. While she was still recovering from both her physical wounds and her wounded pride, he introduced her to Chad.

"Kiyone, this is Chad," he said simply. "He'll keep you out of trouble for sure."

Chad towered over her and had arms strong enough to rip her limb from limb. But he was neither angry nor violent. Rukia learned soon enough that his strength came not only from his bugling muscles, but also from his unshakable, unquestionable loyalty to the Warlord. Unlike the other guards, he couldn't be swayed into sympathizing with her agenda, and was too strong to be knocked out by her.

But the man was as kind as he was tall. He humored her in everything except things that might go against his orders. He was quiet and wasn't very good for conversation, but he played cards and pitch pot with her when she asked and didn't complain when she smoked a pipe indoors.

After the first day, Rukia found out that it had apparently been Kurosaki's plan to humiliate her by hiring Chad as her guard. The man was under orders to watch her at all times, and he stayed in her chambers night and day.

He stood right outside the thin bamboo screen when she bathed or used the toilet, much to her embarrassment. He turned his face to the corner whenever she dressed and couldn't be persuaded to leave the room. At night, he would sleep on a cot outside her bedroom door, and his soft, rhythmic breaths would lull her to sleep.

Whenever she did leave her room to wander about the house, he followed her at an uncomfortably close distance. It was weeks before Rukia was finally allowed to walk in the garden again, and Chad always walked with her, gently gripping her elbow each step of the way.

In this dreary imprisonment, Rukia often found herself seeking the company of the kitchen girls while they worked. She had loathed kitchen duty when she was a soldier, but now, trapped in a drafty stone house, she longed for the comfort of a warm hearth and the bright chatter of girls her age.

Slowly, Rukia fell into a sort of routine. She would start her mornings with breakfast and a walk, and if some of the servant girls could be spared, they would read together or sew. Sometimes, the servants would sing, they had some pleasant time making music. She spent the evenings either exploring the empty corridors of the Red Maple, or she sat in the kitchen and talked with the girls as they worked.

She would watch the girls' muscles bulge as they hauled great big pale slabs of boiled pork from bubbling pots, or bring in live fish from the indoor pond and bludgeon them with a heavy wooden mallet. She would watch their delicate fingers fly as they stripped vegetables down, or shaped sticky rice into attractive, colorful mounds, working, continuously working to glut rich men's fancy appetites.

And when the kitchen became too busy to contain both her and Chad, Rukia returned to her room and read. She drank warm rice wine and sat with her quilts wrapped around her shoulders to ward off the cold.

But she was bored. As the days blurred together, filled with the warm scent of food and the pages of books that she read and reread, she began to ache with the pain of ennui. She began to wonder if this was to be her punishment, to slowly languish and die behind the walls of the Red Maple, cut off from the war and the world, cut off from ever seeing Byakuya again.

More than anything, Rukia wanted to train, to grip a sword in her hand and a horse's saddle between her legs. She longed for the feel of wind ripping through her hair, the sharp thrill of a new scheme, the heady exhilaration of danger and adventure.

She wanted to be free. She was made to be free.

She was tired of playing pitch pot and cards. She was tired of the confines of the garden.

So, she was happy and surprised when Chad agreed to give her a tour of the armory one morning. Perhaps he sympathized with _this _particular plight: the agony of restlessness, of prowling a cage and pawing at the ground like a lioness.

But whatever schemes she might have been thinking of when she saw the wealth of weaponry was interrupted when Ichigo Kurosaki barged in on them.

"And just what is she doing here?" he demanded of Chad.

"I'm just visiting. Don't snap," said Rukia, not looking away from where she was inspecting the engravings on a silver spearhead. She ran her finger over the fine work, over the sharpness of the blade.

"And what if she decides to snatch up a sword and run you through?" Kurosaki said, ignoring her. "What the hell possessed you to bring her _here _of all places? What's wrong with the garden? Or the stables? Or, hell, even the mausoleum?"

"She's already seen those places," said Chad. "And besides, I took precautions."

In his hand, he held up a long, thin rope. The end of it was tied in a loop around Rukia's right wrist.

"If she tries anything…" Chad yanked on his end of the rope as way of explanation and Rukia yelped as she was jerked backwards by the wrist.

"Ow!" she complained, rubbing the burn mark the rope made. "You could have just _told_ him, you know."

"Fine, whatever," Kurosaki muttered. "It'll be your own fault if she kills you."

He pushed past Chad and Rukia to fetch a bow from the armory. It was then that Rukia noticed the servant boy standing a bit ways off, holding the reins to Kurosaki's black stallion. Kurosaki himself was decked out in cloak, gloves, and leather boots, but no armor and no sword.

"Hey, where are you going?" she asked, watching him string his bow and strap a quiver to his back. "Not to battle, obviously. Are you going out for a ride?"

"Kitchen needs more flesh," he said, and walked past her to where his horse was waiting. In the distance, Rukia could see a dozen other men, already mounted and waiting for the Warlord to ride out with them.

"You're going on a hunting trip?" she said. Ignoring the rope on her wrist, she ran after him. "Let me go too! Let me ride out with you!"

"Do you think I'm stupid?" he scoffed as he stuck his booted foot into the stirrup and pulled himself into the saddle.

He made to ride off but she threw herself in front of the horse, making it recoil.

"Idiot!" he shouted, reining it in. "Do you want me to run you down?"

"Oh, he won't run me down," she said, putting a gentle hand on either side of the stallion's muzzle. "He's such a darling!"

The horse bit her hand in response and she pulled away quickly. "Alright, so your horse is a slobbering brute. But let me ride out with you! I won't try to escape, promise!"

"No. Chad, restrain her or something."

Her heart thumped desperately as he took the reins in his hands. It was painful, to watch him and the others ride off while she was stuck there, forever languishing. It felt in that moment that she would truly die if she couldn't be free, when everyone else was free.

Recklessly, she grabbed his ankle and made him pull up with a swear.

"Please, please let me go with you," she said.

He looked down at her with his piercing eyes, as if he would kick her. He stared at her hand, small and pale on the dark leather of his boot, like a little lily. His brow furrowed and his lips thinned, and it looked as if he was unsettled somehow.

She stared back, unflinching, and forced herself not to mock him by inquiring whether or not he was constipated.

"Ichigo," Chad spoke up, and Rukia's eyes widened at hearing a mere guardsman call the Warlord by his first name. "Ichigo, I can go with her. I can watch her and hold her horse's reins."

"Yes!" she cried. "Chad can go with me. He'll make sure I won't try anything."

He stared at the both of them, fingering the reins in his gloved hands. Rukia could have shouted at him for looking so casual about it. To him, it may have meant nothing, but to her, it was a desperate need.

"Can you even ride?" he asked. "Isn't your toe still sprained? You know, the toe that you hurt from kicking me?"

She flushed deeply.

"Ichigo," Chad said again, and Kurosaki threw his hands up impatiently.

"Alright, fine! But if she somehow escapes, then I will hold you fully responsible." He kicked his horse and rode away.

"Yes!" Rukia cheered, jumping a bit despite her injured foot. "Thank you, thank you, thank you, Chad! You're the best!"

Half an hour later, she wasn't thanking him anymore and she no longer thought he was the best. He had chosen the slowest, fattest mare from the stable, probably the slowest fattest mare in the world.

Rukia gritted her teeth as he led her through the woods at an agonizingly slow pace. He kept a tight hold on the reins as if she were a child, being led on her first horse ride. It was cold, and she didn't even have the joy of being able to drive her horse into a gallop.

She couldn't even see the other members of the hunting party as they were so far behind. Only the distant sounds of men laughing and the musical hum of the hunting horn reached her ears.

"Can't we go any faster?" she whined.

"No, Mistress. That might go against His Highness' orders."

She sighed. This wasn't what she had been expecting. The scenery was hardly pleasant, as they were surrounded by bare, gray trees. It was cold, but there was no snow. It was windy, but the panting mare underneath her didn't give her the satisfaction of feeling the wind ripple through her hair.

"I'm tired," she said, after they had ridden like this for quite awhile. "I want to stop."

Chad complied and drew the horse to rest under the branches of a towering tree.

"Mistress," he said, "I know you are more used to the game of the South, but there are a variety of birds in these woods that are good for eating. I will be happy to shoot some for you, if you have a preference."

She watched him take an arrow from his quiver and fit it to his bow.

"Why can't I shoot my own game?" she demanded.

"It is against my orders to hand you any weapons."

"Ugh, what a pain. Alright then, I want a rabbit."

He set out with a determined look, but she stopped him. "I want it alive and unharmed," she said, smiling.

"That will take me longer," he replied, and slipped the arrow back into his quiver. He looked back at her. "Can I trust you to keep your promise that you won't escape?"

"I swear on my honor," she said sweetly.

She watched him wander off, gathering sticks as he went, to make a trap. She watched and waited until he wandered off the trail and disappeared into the line of trees, and then waited a bit more to make sure he wasn't coming back soon.

"Wonderful," she whispered, and grabbed the tethering rope. It was difficult to pull it out of its knot, but she managed and soon, her mare was free. Immediately, she dug her heels into its sides.

"Go, girl, go!" she muttered. "Run!" She jerked the reins. She kicked the horse and pressed her knee into its tawny side.

It took her a few minutes, but the mare finally gave a shrill whinny and started to canter.

"Yes!" Rukia cheered. She steered her mare towards the south, head whirling with the thought of escaping.

Her euphoria soon disappeared when she realized that the mare would only canter for a few seconds before slowing down, and would have to be kicked mercilessly to start up again.

"Damn it, you traitor," Rukia hissed. "Go already! Run!"

She managed to get the horse about half a mile away from the original spot before she had to stop abruptly, as Chad suddenly appeared from behind a tree and jumped before her.

She groaned. "How did you know where I was?" she asked.

"I simply followed your trail, Mistress. Please don't try that again." He shoved a wriggling, stinking bag at her. "Here is your rabbit. I accidentally hurt its foot, but it's unharmed otherwise."

"Oh. How nice," she muttered, and held the cloth sack at arm's length.

X

Orihime Inoue shrieked when the brown ball of fuzz darted around her ankles, but then broke out into giggles and joined Kiyone Kotetsu in chasing "Chappy" around the room. Ichigo's grumbling was drowned out by the high-pitched laughter of the two girls as they ran around each other, hands cupped to catch the frightened rabbit.

The fact that the courtesan had stopped in the middle of giving him a backrub seemed to be of no consequence. The fact that they were trampling all over his private bedroom and knocking over chairs didn't seem to bother them.

Ichigo sighed and rubbed his temples. Briefly, he wondered whether he should have the both of them arrested for vandalism.

"Chappy! Oh, Chappy!" Orihime cooed like a dove, while Kiyone tried to tempt the rabbit out from under the dresser with a leaf, one that she tore from a potted plant.

Of course, he lost a bit of his hostility watching their antics. They were a nostalgic-looking pair, one fair and one dark, like older versions of his own sisters. At the memory of Karin and Yuzu's round faces, his heart softened and he didn't have them arrested after all.

It wasn't the first time this had happened. Since the day Kiyone had brought back the "darling" in a sack, Chappy had developed a habit of running into Ichigo's room to hide. The rabbit left droppings everywhere and chewed at the edges of his expensive carpet.

But no matter how many times he yelled and threatened to have the beast skinned alive and roasted, Kiyone refused to get rid of it. She knitted a wool sling and carried Chappy around with her. She stole a soup tureen from the kitchen and used it as Chappy's bathtub. A silk pillow became Chappy's bed, which the rabbit promptly chewed up after one day.

Kiyone often appeared with rabbit scratches on her face, and Ichigo thought it was ironic how she was so fond of an animal that wasn't too fond of her in return.

And, for some unfathomable reason, the brown rabbit loved to hide in Ichigo's room, which caused Kiyone to intrude whether he was there or not. Whether he was gone for days on a war campaign or at a council with his advisors, Ichigo always returned to be greeted by news form his guards that Lady Kotetsu had once again broken in and wrecked half the place in her search for Chappy.

"You know," he said one day, looking up from his calligraphy. "For someone who hates me, you sure spend a lot of time in my room."

She was lying flat on her belly, arm reaching under his bed where Chappy was hiding.

Ichigo sighed. "When are you going to get rid of that thing, anyway?"

"Chappy's got a bad foot," she said, her voice several notes higher than usual. "I'll set him free once he's better. In the meantime… Ah hah!"

She pulled the rabbit out triumphantly and hugged it to her chest. He saw her wince as she stood, favoring her left foot.

"You shouldn't be running around on that," he said. "I don't think it's quite healed."

"As if you cared," she replied, and plopped into a chair near the table. "I'm perfectly fine, besides."

He watched her stroke her pet's ears. He watched her dark head bend affectionately, the corners of her lips turn upwards into a soft smile.

It was odd, he thought, how she could be so soft one moment and a blazing furnace of anger when she was provoked.

Ichigo set down his pen and pulled up a chair so that he sat across from her.

"Let me see," he said, gesturing to her foot. She looked up and stared at him with some surprise, but didn't protest when he bent down and took her ankle in his hand.

He lifted her little foot into his lap and cradled it, almost mirroring her actions with Chappy. She didn't move a muscle when he peeled off her sock and brushed a finger along the arch of her foot.

The rabbit made a little snuffling noise and jumped off, but she didn't seem to notice. Ichigo could hear her breathing hard through her nose and when he looked up, there was a slight blush on her cheeks.

His own face felt warm, and he was sure that he was blushing too. It was innocent enough, him taking her bandaged toe between his fingers, but it felt more intimate than it should have.

Her foot wasn't plump or pretty, like those of the barefoot dancers, but skinny, like the rest of her. Her heel was chapped and callused. Gingerly, he fingered the swaddled toes and drew a slight gasp from her, an intake of breath that almost sounded sexual.

Why, oh why, was his stomach tightening? Why was his face heating up like a kettle, put on the fire to boil? He, who had known his first lover at 14 and never been bashful since?

"Does it hurt?" he said thickly.

"A little," she whispered. "Don't… don't touch it. It feels strange."

He ran his thumb down the sole of her foot and felt every crease, every bump and callus. It wasn't a particularly attractive foot, but it arched in a pretty little bow and her toenails were rosy.

"I don't hate you, by the way," she said, quite out of nowhere. He looked up at her in surprise.

"What?"

"You said earlier that I spend an awful lot of time in your room for 'someone who hated you,' right? I don't hate you."

He snorted at that.

"You're my enemy, of course," she hastened to add. "But I don't hate you. I find it hard to hate anyone that I've met."

"You certainly looked like you hated me, when you were trying to kill me." He remembered how awful and stunning her face had been, when she had screamed at him in rage and lifted the knife over his heart.

"I wasn't trying to kill you." Her eyes narrowed slightly in annoyance, as if she thought him particularly dull. "I was _trying _to get free from you. Make no mistake, I would have gladly killed you in the process, but it wasn't my intent."

"Ah. And that, of course, makes all the difference when I'm dead."

"Obviously." She sat back with a smirk on her face, but quickly grew somber. "Of course, that doesn't excuse my behavior afterwards. I didn't care about getting free then. I was just angry. I shouldn't have… lost control like that."

"I see. It's alright, I suppose. You only bruised a few ribs."

She paused. "Well?"

"Well what?"

"I apologized! Now you should apologize too!"

"What! You call that an apology? And I have nothing to apologize for, idiot!"

"You have plenty to apologize for, you ungrateful beast! And who're _you _calling an idiot?"

"What the hell does that mean!"

"OW! You're squeezing my foot!" She reached over and slapped his hand, producing a sharp crack.

"Oh! I… I'm sorry."

She smirked, satisfied. "Good. You should be."

"Wait a minute, I was apologizing for that, not anything else!"

She glared at him, and he sighed in resignation.

"Alright. I'm sorry too. Happy?"

She crossed her arms over her chest. From the look on her face, it would seem that a thousand years of suffering wouldn't appease her. "No. But I suppose it'll have to do, for now."

"Sheesh, thanks a lot." He leaned back and let go of her foot. But for some reason, she chose to leave it there, perched on his lap.

"Hey, tell me something."

"What?" he muttered.

"Why do you like Rukia Kuchiki so much? What's so special about her?"

His heart skipped a beat. "H-have you been reading my journal?" he demanded angrily.

"Oh, please. Like I've had time, between stealing it and running for my life. Just answer the question."

Her eyebrows lowered, making the violet in her eyes all the more intense. It seemed to him that she was scrutinizing him, staring straight into his face and studying his reaction. There was something about the earnest look in her face that had him opening his mouth and speaking, unable to keep the words from tumbling out.

"Well," he began. "It's not really one thing. It's everything about her. It's foolish, I know, that I've only seen her once but I like her so much. They say she's the most beautiful woman at Byakuya Kuchiki's court. I've only ever had pictures of her but I can see that it's true. She's the most beautiful woman I've ever seen. There's just… something soft about her face, something lovely and sweet and good, like the smell of fruit in the summer, the smell of its skin just before you bite into it, or like a flower that's blooming but still young."

Unconsciously, he slid his fingertips down the length of her foot and she shivered.

"They say she's not only beautiful, but intelligent as well. They say she reads very well, and not just storybooks, but histories and poetry and war books and all kinds of things so that every conversation with her is simply delicious. She has wit and beauty, and charm too. Can you imagine?

"And she's kind-hearted too! They say she loves all the children of her city as if they were her own, and that once a month, she gathers the best pieces of her jewelry and sells them, then distributes the coins to the little orphans. They say she's set up poorhouses and orphanages and schools all over the Southern districts.

"I've heard that she sings like a songbird and dances like a swan. I've heard that she has beautiful calligraphy that even rivals her brother's. If I'm to marry someone, I want a woman who I can fall in love with again and again, someone so wonderful and captivating that I would die for her. Rukia Kuchiki is that person."

Kiyone Kotetsu blinked. Ichigo looked down to see that he was cupping her foot in his hands, as if it were a lily, as if it were a candle flame that he was shielding from the wind.

"She's not really like that," said Kiyone, eyes downcast so that Ichigo couldn't discern her expression.

"And how would you know?" he said crossly.

She shook her head. "I know because no woman is like that. No woman is that perfect, and you shouldn't expect them to be."

There was an odd, sharp feeling in his chest when she said that, and he looked down at his hands. "My mother was," he whispered, and felt the old pain resurfacing.

But before it could bubble up into a painful pressure against his heart, they were both startled by a noise. Two servants entered the room, bearing large platters of fruit.

Even though it was only her foot that was naked, both of them blushed to the roots of their hair. Her heel was propped up on his knee, chastely enough, and her foot stood up like a pale little pennant. But for some reason, Ichigo felt as embarrassed as if he had been caught with one hand up her kimono and the other on her breast.

Kiyone withdrew her foot and brought it down to tuck it behind her other one as the servants arranged the platters on the table.

"Your Highness," said the maids in their whispery voices, and bowed before leaving.

"How did you get fresh fruit at a time like this?" she said brightly, her voice sounding livelier than before. She had a hungry look on her face, so he passed her a grapefruit.

"I pay to have fruit brought in from the warmer regions," he answered, and felt the habitual arrogance creep into his voice again.

"I don't like grapefruits," she said, and tossed it back at him. It sailed through the air like a golden ball. He caught it in cupped hands.

She took a bowl that had peach in it and tore into the fruit as if she was starving. The juice gathered in beads around her mouth, making her lower lip look plumper. It threatened to drip down her chin.

Without quite knowing why he was doing it, or that he _was _doing it until it was too late, he leaned close to her and touched the tip of his tongue to her mouth. He licked the peachy sweetness of her lower lip and sucked the juice into his own mouth.

He backed away almost immediately, heart beating furiously and shocked with himself.

She was frozen. Her eyes were like violet-colored saucers. For a horrible, awkward moment, all she did was stare at him.

Slowly, she stood and pushed her chair back with the underside of her knees. The peach slipped from her fingers and fell back into the bowl with a wet plop. The bite she had taken looked like a reddish gash in the round fleshiness of the fruit, and it was strangely obscene.

Ichigo wasn't sure whether she would kiss him or punch him. She did neither, but simply stood there silently, with a sort of expectant look on her face.

And it seemed like there was nothing else to do but stand up and take her face into his broad hands. When she didn't shake him off, he bent down and kissed her properly.

….

…

Thanks so much for reading! Please review!


	7. Chapter 7

Disclaimer: I don't own Bleach or any Bleach characters. This fanfiction is for entertainment purposes only and no profit is being made.

Warnings for this chapter: violence, gore, bad language, some sexual content

The main pairings are Rukia/Ichigo and Rukia/Byakuya.

X

Chapter 7

The wind was cold and dry on Rukia's cheek, but the sun was shining with the promise of warmer weather for later. Her hands were slowly growing numb and she rubbed her fingers together, regretting that she had left her gloves behind.

"This is the spot," she declared. Huffing a bit, she stopped and bent down, putting the wooden cage on the ground.

Ichigo and Chad stopped with her, flanking her on either side. A bit ways off behind them, their horses were tied to trees and a servant was waiting for them.

The time had finally come for Chappy to be set free, and Rukia had insisted on riding out into the middle of the forest to do so. She had ridden the whole way with Chappy's wooden cage under her arm.

Chad had accompanied her, of course, and the Warlord himself had ridden out with her on his stallion. He had said that it was because he wanted a respite from the hard work that was war, a break from depressing reports and the petitions from the navy for better wages.

But from the way he would look sideways at her face, watching the way she smiled and the way she tossed her head to keep the hair out of her eyes, she suspected he only came along to spend time with her. She caught him looking a few times, and he would quickly look away and flush. It made her feel terribly self-conscious, but a bit smug as well.

"What's so special about this spot?" said Ichigo, kicking at some dead leaves.

Rukia lifted the latch from the cage and reached in. Chappy huddled in a little brown ball of fuzz as she grabbed him and pulled him out.

"There you go, Chappy," she cooed, laying him onto the ground. The rabbit's nose twitched, and he scratched her.

"Go on, now, Chappy. Go home! I'm sure your family misses you."

They all stared in silence. Rukia was breathing hard, her eyes alight with excitement. But all the rabbit did was sniff around and slowly, slowly, hop away into the distance.

"Do you think poor Chappy will be alright?" she asked. She turned to Ichigo and saw that he had been looking at her again. His cheeks reddened and he tried to cover it up with an irritable shrug.

"Psh. How should I know?"

"Well _I _think that it's too cold for little Chappy. He might freeze to death before he finds shelter. Should we catch him again and make a little coat for him?"

He raised an eyebrow at this, and Rukia felt herself flush a bit at how childish the suggestion was.

"I wouldn't know," he replied. "All I know how to do is shoot and skin a rabbit. But I don't think Chappy would appreciate a coat made from, well, himself."

Rukia grimaced. "Ugh. You're awful."

She turned on the toes of her feet and started walking back. The leaves crunched merrily underneath her boots. She was in high spirits, even though she had yet to think up another escape plan, another scheme, another battle strategy. Being outdoors always lifted her mood, especially when it was cold and crisp.

"Are you cold?" Ichigo asked, coming closer to her when he saw her blowing on her hands.

"A bit. I left my gloves behind."

He took her hand in his and tucked it into his sleeve, trapping it in the warmth of his body. She grasped his bare arm, hot and strong, and a delightful little shiver ran through her body, titillating, like raindrops on naked skin.

But she squirmed away when he drew her close and kissed her on the lips.

"You shouldn't keep doing that," she said, even as her mouth moistened and her pulse thrummed with desire.

"Why not? You don't like being kissed?"

"I don't like being kissed by _you_," she said. She gave him a little shove and turned her face away from the enchanting slant of his smile.

"I hope you know," she said with a toss of her head, "I hope you know that I'm already in love with someone and he wouldn't like it if he knew you were kissing me."

"Oh?"

"Yes, it's true."

Ichigo bit his lip and Rukia had the sneaking suspicion he was trying to keep from laughing. He probably thought she was lying.

"What, don't you believe me?" she demanded.

"Not a bit, Mistress Kiyone," he said cheerfully, and took her arm again. Even as she gritted her teeth, she couldn't bring herself to pull away from his warmth, so she hid her pleasure by burying her face in his shoulder.

"Are you married to him?" he asked, after they had walked in silence for a while.

"N-no," she admitted. "Not yet, anyway." The color rose to her face again from the mere thought of it.

"Are you betrothed?"

"No."

"Hah. He won't mind if I kiss you, then." He stopped and turned his body towards her, and Rukia found herself pressed up against him, leaning up for a kiss before she even realized she what she was doing.

His mouth was hot against hers as she arched her back, pressing herself into the hardness and heat of him. She could feel his arm wrapping around her waist, nearly lifting her off her feet.

When they parted, she was dizzy with desire and would have swayed if he hadn't been holding her steady. His eyes were soft as he looked down at her, softer than they usually were, and she felt hot, as if she had drunk warm rice wine and the buttery heat was filling her from the inside.

"Oh, get off," she said, even though her voice was husky with her longing for him. He yielded to her half-hearted struggle and released her.

"What d'you think?" he said. The cocky grin was back. "Much better than what you get from Mr. Lover, eh?"

"Hmph." Well, that was true. In fact, it was much better than what she got from _anyone_, but Rukia was too proud to let him have that satisfaction.

"No, not really," she said flippantly. She spun away from him so that the ends of her scarf smacked him lightly in the face. She walked ahead of him without looking back. "In fact, you can't even compare to my _true _love. There can be no comparison. It would be like choosing between gold and dust. My true love is the best and noblest man in the South. One strand of his hair is worth more than your entire body. Your kisses are dust compared to just a single touch of his hand. He is gold and you are dust."

Rukia closed her eyes and imagined the gold that was Byakuya. She tried to imagine the brush of the back of his hand, the elegant sweep of his lashes, the rare moments he showed open affection for her, rare as gold.

The mere thought of him had her stopping in her tracks with a gasp as color flooded her cheeks. If she tried hard enough, she could imagine that the breeze was from the passing swish of his robe. She could almost smell the scent of his clothes. It took only a bit more effort to imagine that if she turned her head, it would be Byakuya walking behind her instead of the Northern Warlord and his smoldering stare, one that flitted between anger and love.

X

Lord Kuchiki's eyes were as hard as steel slivers. They glinted like a knife reflecting the light.

If Renji Abarai had not been away from court for the last few weeks, where the fear of treason and espionage hung like a scent in the air, he would have been more afraid than this. To Jushiro Ukitake, the travel-stained Lieutenant was not nearly frightened enough.

Renji stood alone in the center of the hushed room. All other heads were lowered or turned away as he faced the Warlord on his raised seat. There was no one who stood with him, no one who would save him if somehow, Lord Kuchiki's favor swayed against him.

"I ask you again, Lieutenant Abarai," said the Warlord in a voice of ice, "what do you know of Lady Rukia's whereabouts?"

Jūshirō could hear the heavy, almost expectant breathing of the purple-collared man next to him. He could hear the thump of Byakuya's finger as it tapped onto the wooden armrest of the chair.

"As I said," replied Renji, "she asked me to bring her closer to the Northern border. She said she wanted to be closer to the field, so she could better study the war. So she could better understand it. As she was a Lady of the Kuchiki House as well as my betrothed, I could not refuse her. I know this has gone against your wishes, my Lord. I am ready to accept whatever punishment you see fit."

Renji Abarai had no talent for lying, at least not in the face of the Warlord. He never quite learned the sharp wit that the nobles had rolling off their tongues. The young lieutenant was uncultured by a courtier's standards, but he was charismatic, bold, and loyal. Half the court loved him for it and the other half hated that a commoner had become one of the most talented and favored men in Lord Kuchiki's military.

The ones that hated Renji were now waiting with bated breath, crouched in their corners and chairs, peeking through the gaps of the doors, heads bobbing as if they were animals eager to be fed. Jushiro could see the grim delight in their beady eyes, that the Warlord's favorite lieutenant was now standing there without friends, in a dirty, wet cloak, exhausted from his travels because Lord Kuchiki had summoned him as soon as he returned, without giving him time to rest or change.

Half the room recoiled when Byakuya stood abruptly. Three steps down from his raised chair and he was standing right in front of Renji, staring the lieutenant right in the eye.

"I don't believe you," he said. "You are lying to me, Renji Abarai. Don't forget, you still owe your allegiance to me, whether or not you are betrothed to Lady Rukia. I will ask one more time, _where is my sister?_"

The unspoken threat was as dangerous as a naked sword blade held up to Renji's throat. The courtiers who were closets to the dais flinched.

For a second, Jushiro saw Renji's eyes shift to stare straight at him. He recognized that look, a desperate, secret look that spoke of intrigue of plotting.

But in the next second, Renji had stepped back and sunk into a low bow. "Forgive me, Lord Kuchiki. I have told you the truth. I can tell you nothing else."

For a long moment, he stayed there, bent low in submission while Byakuya stared, pale with anger. Shoulder to shoulder, Renji would be the taller of the two men, but now, it seemed that Lord Kuchiki towered over his lieutenant.

"Have you eloped with her?" Byakuya demanded. His eyes were narrowed into slits and his anger came pouring out in a cold hiss. It must have been difficult to stand up and look into that icy gaze, but Renji managed it without flinching.

"No, sir," said Renji, and Jushiro winced, that the lieutenant should forgo the title of "Your Highness," now of all times.

"Have you taken her away somewhere and married her in secret?"

"No, sir."

"Have you betrayed me? Have you?"

"No, sir." His voice trembled and he spoke and he bowed low again, and it seemed as if he was lowering his head onto the executioner's block.

"Still, you lie. So be it," said the Warlord, and his voice fell like the thud of the axe. "You have sealed your fate."

Byakuya turned and stepped back up the dais to sit in his chair. Almost collectively, the courtiers leaned forward, stretching their necks for the Warlord's next words, waiting for a sentence. But they were denied the pleasure of learning whether the lieutenant would be racked or flogged or imprisoned when Byakuya remained silent and pensive.

Jushiro decided to squelch their curiosities. "If you'll forgive me, Your Highness," he said brightly while making his way to the center of the chamber, "I fear that my sickness is upon me. If you'll excuse me, I must return to my home and rest. Lieutenant Abarai, please escort an old man to his home."

He held out his arm.

Renji looked at him in surprise. "C-Commander Ukitake…"

"Lieutenant Abarai, _please escort an old man to his home_," Jushiro repeated. Renji blinked and took his elbow. Jushiro dipped into a short bow and together, they left. Someone gasped sharply when they turned their backs, not bothering to exit by way of the careful, measured, backwards steps while facing the Warlord. They escaped, and the whispers behind them followed like the buzzing of wasps.

It was when they passed by the Warlord's guards, standing like armed statues on either side of the door, that Jushiro felt Renji's hand shake.

"Steady," whispered Jushiro, and he grabbed Renji's hand, holding it tightly against his arm. "Don't tremble. Don't look back. Keep your head up, or they'll devour you like the vultures they are."

It was only after they had left Lord Kuchiki's compound and arrived safely at Jushiro's own house that Renji was finally able to collapse in a chair, letting out a shaky breath. A servant pressed a cup of tea in his hands took off his rain-drenched cloak.

Jushiro stood patiently and waited for the lieutenant to get his color back. He watched Renji rub his cheeks, run the back of his knuckles over his chin, shake his head as if he were numb and was trying to get some feeling back into his body.

"Commander Ukitake," he said hoarsely, and took one of Jushiro's hands.

Jushiro felt the cool smoothness of a folded square of paper pressed into his palm. He opened the little white square and his breath caught. Instead of a message, there was bird of paradise drawn in ink, the symbol of the Kyoraku house.

"I see," said Jushiro. "So, you've met Shunsui Kyoraku, haven't you? What did he say? Is it about Lady Rukia?"

"Y-yes," Renji replied. He looked around furtively, as if checking for hidden assassins.

"Then am I right in assuming that what you told Lord Kuchiki was a lie? That Rukia is actually somewhere other than where you claimed?"

"Yes," Renji whispered.

"Where is she?" Jushiro demanded. "Is she safe?"

"She's safe."

"Where is she, Lieutenant?"

"I… I can't say."

"Excuse me?"

"I… General Kyoraku says that her safety depends on her secrecy. If anyone finds out… she could be killed or imprisoned. He said that if Lord Kuchiki knew where she was, he would do anything to rescue her. But that in turn would inform the captors of her true identity, which would be very bad for her. He asked for you to trust me on this."

"Unacceptable," said Jushiro, and crumpled the paper in his fist. "I don't care what Shunsui said. If Rukia is in danger, then you need to tell me."

"I cannot."

"Listen to me, Renji Abarai," said Ukitake. He stepped close and saw Renji flinch at the power behind his weak frame, a power that not even decades of consumption could have dimmed. "Rukia Kuchiki is a child. And not only that, she is my pupil. Whatever danger she's in, she needs help. Tell me where she is."

Renji shook his head. "I cannot. Please, Commander, trust General Kyoraku."

For a long moment, they stared at each other. But Renji refused to give in and Jushiro found himself staring at stubborn, youthful pride, the same pride that he had once recognized in Byakuya's eyes.

He sighed. "Alright, then. I won't force you to talk."

He walked over to the window so that Renji couldn't see the pain on his face. His chest was aching and he longed for the cool soothing mix of his medicine.

"So it's true, then?" Renji said softly. "I didn't believe it at first, but it's true. You _are _plotting with the Northerners. You _are _a traitor. Goodness, I suppose I am too. Have you really done treason, Commander? You, of all people?"

Jushiro laughed. His voice came out flat and humorless. "Treason? Yes, indeed. But plotting with the Northerners? No. I've only plotted with one Northerner, and I would never plot against Lord Byakuya."

He turned to look at Renji, who was watching him with wide eyes. A drop of rainwater ran down the lieutenant's face, like a tear.

_He is young_, Jushiro thought. He is rash and young and bold, and has been friends with Rukia since childhood. They always hung around each other, and everyone at court knew that Rukia adored him. No wonder Byakuya thought they had gone and eloped.

As for Shunsui Kyoraku, he wouldn't put it past the man to have a personal agenda for keeping Rukia's location secret.

He sighed and rubbed his forehead, trying to smooth out the furrows. "Shunsui should not have drawn you into this. You have so much more to lose than either of us. For that, I'm sorry."

He watched Renji's posture slump, saw him put his face in his hands, breathing hard.

"You can stay here with me," said Jushiro. "You can stay here as long as you want. That way, if Lord Byakuya does send his men to arrest you, I'll offer you whatever protection I can."

Renji shook his head. "No. If you don't mind me saying so, Commander, I'd rather not hide like a coward. If they come for me, then they come for me. I'm ready to die for her sake."

He stood and drew himself up, as if bracing himself. The manservant came and put the cloak around his shoulders. He drew it tight about himself, as if it were armor.

"Besides," said Renji, "I wouldn't want you to get into trouble on my account."

This drew a short bark of laughter from Jushiro. "Oh, no worries there, Lieutenant. I'm already in trouble with the Warlord on my own."

"Is it because of…?"

Jushiro shook his head. "It's because I wouldn't support His Highness' decisions as of late. And I have refused to contribute to his campaign in the North."

"But surely he wouldn't arrest _you_, Commander. You're his oldest and most loyal friend. Everyone knows that."

"Hmm." Jushiro smiled and nodded, but he knew that even old and loyal friends could be replaced. The image of Gin Ichimaru's claw, perched on Byakuya's shoulder as if it belonged there, came to mind.

"Well, I suppose I'll be off now," said Renji. "Thank you, Commander Ukitake. I'm headed off to the barracks. I guess if I'm to be arrested, my men deserve to know ahead of time."

X

It had rained again. Rukia had watched it come down, perched before the crack of an open window.

The rain had frozen overnight. The trees in the little garden were coated with ice and had bulbs of ice dangling from their branches, as if they were laden with crystal fruit.

Outside, it grew cold enough to set her temples aching whenever she took a walk. The winds came down in great gusts and stirred the frost up from the ground so that it stung her face and she could hardly see.

Soon, Rukia had to give up her daily walks. It grew colder and colder as the world around her tumbled into winter.

She huddled by the fires of the kitchen hearth whenever she could. Sometimes, she would even nap there until late in the afternoon, her face propped on one hand and her shawl folded over her lap. She grew used to hearing the sizzle of the skillets, the splash of the basins, the heavy thud of the cleavers on the wooden boards.

Everywhere else in the house was cold and damp. The Warlord and his advisors met in their coats, bundled up to their ears in wool and fur, their breath coming out in white puffs as they argued and debated.

The heat of the kitchen enticed everyone, drew the off-duty guards and the other servants to sit around the hearth and warm their hands, while the stuffier nobles lingered at the threshold. Rukia's favorite place to nap became crowded and noisy with the buzz of conversation.

But when the Warlord himself entered, shrugging his coat off with a roll of his shoulders, the room was filled with the sound of respectful greetings and the rustle of cloth as everyone stood to bow. The kitchen girls would drop their tasks and rush to spread a rug over the stool, produce a cup of tea, a bowl of soup, hot and sweet.

And always, whenever _he _came, and all the scattered conversation stopped so that everyone could regroup around him, his eyes flicked towards Rukia, even as she huddled in a messy little bundle by the fireplace, dirty-faced and bleary-eyed. Always, he would stand so the rug fell from his lap and make his way towards her. It always set everyone whispering, how he would take his seat next to her, how they would talk and he would sometimes hold her hand.

The courtiers and his advisors all gossiped that he was courting her, that he had made her his mistress. Whenever she bumped into any of them when she was walking, they would cast cold, disapproving looks at her, then turn up her noses as if they had stepped in something particularly nasty.

One day, she heard a whisper go past her like the breeze as she walked, "Whore of the South."

She would have whirled around and chased after whoever dared to say such a thing, if Chad had not caught her arm. She promptly went back to her rooms and destroyed two pillows, which made her feel somewhat better. Still, the statement left her furious and hung around her all day as if it were a stench.

It was another reason to be annoyed at Ichigo, since he never took the time to dispel the rumors. It made her life just a little bit harder.

But it was always a treat when Orihime Inoue visited. Whenever she had the time, Orihime would steal away from her own quarters and come to Rukia's rooms. For a short while, the bleakness would be interrupted by an adorable pink mouth and eyes that never seemed to stop sparkling.

Orihime Inoue could sing and dance, joke, play cards, and pluck a biwa, and always smelled sweet and fresh. She was pretty and happy, lovelier and plumper than Rukia, and brightened any room like a rosy lantern.

"When I first saw you," Orihime said excitedly, "I _never _would have guessed that you were a noble! This is so exciting! And you're a Southerner too! You know, I've never been to the South before, but I hear that it's absolutely delightful, with lakes as clear as glass and the loveliest houses, and all kinds of shops too! Tell me, tell me, where did you live? Did you have a great big house like this one? Of course you did, you're a noble after all! Did you have maids to wait on you? Did you wear pretty dresses, made of silk?"

And Rukia could not help but giggle when she giggled. She could not help clasping Orihime's hands as if they were children and telling her all she wanted to know.

"Yes, I lived in a house. A grand house, even bigger than this one."

The pink mouth opened in a gasp. "Really! And did you have servants?"

"Dozens of them. Dozens and dozens. They all had to bow to me whenever they passed me in the hallways. They all had to call me Lady R-… Lady Kiyone."

"And what did you eat?"

"Oh, all kinds of things. Sheep's meat, made a hundred different ways. White rice and eels from the river. Fish, fresh from the ponds. Vegetables, still glistening with dewdrops from the day they were picked. And miniature houses made from sweets."

"And did you have friends? Were you a great, popular lady?"

This would make Rukia sigh, and her lashes would flutter with the ache of nostalgia. "I had a few very close friends. I loved them a great deal. I wonder how they are now."

But there was no lingering on such things when Orihime was around. There was always _something _to do, some game to play, some piece of music to be sung, some poetry to be recited and then twisted around into a word game.

They fought with pillows until they collapsed from laughing. They cajoled Chad into giving them piggyback rides around the house, one of them riding him like a steed while the other one gave chase, shrieking with laughter. With Orihime, Rukia could do something she had never done before: be as silly and as carefree as she wanted. She could be a silly, indulgent girl, and let down her hair. She could forget about the formality of her upbringing. She could forget about the rigorous training of a soldier.

And in the quieter hours of the night, after Orihime had gone to eat her dinner with the other dancing girls, after baths were taken and pajamas were donned, she would sometimes sneak back into Rukia's rooms with a candle in her hand. Chad would let her pass, without a word.

She would brush out Rukia's long, black hair, still wet from the bathwater, and plait it into a shining rope. They would lay out cards or a board game on Rukia's bedspread and play their games in hushed voices until the late hours of the night. They would lie side by side, pillows pushed together, and talk until they fell asleep.

Orihime would always be gone in the morning, and Rukia's sheets would smell faintly of flowers.

But those days were rare, like the occasional bursts of sunshine in a cold, bleak winter. Most days, Michiru the kitchen girl would be called up to be her bedmate instead. She wasn't as wonderful as Orihime, and went to sleep as soon as the covers were pulled up to her chin. But she was pleasant company and body heat at night saved coal.

Another visitor she sometimes had was Ichigo himself. He took to dining in her rooms several nights a week. Though it galled her to welcome the company of an enemy, she had to admit it was livelier than dining alone with Chad, who barely spoke at all.

On the nights Ichigo visited, the better candles were laid out. The servants dressed better and stood by the table during the meal, jugs in their hands in case they wanted refills.

There was almost no meat for their meals now. In the leanest of months, the best cuts from the hunting parties were sent to the military officers' kitchens. The bones and legs and broken bits were sent to the lower-ranked soldiers.

The Warlord himself went without. It was a time-honored tradition in the North for the ruler to forgo meat when meat was scarce, as a symbol of sacrifice for his men. Ichigo's entire household lived off a vegetable, grain, and fish diet. The indoor ponds were nearly fished clean.

"And what have you been doing when I'm not around?" he asked her. "Not planning something reckless again, I hope?"

"No," said Rukia. "It's too cold out. I'd rather wait until spring." Sullenly, she poked her chopsticks into her rice. There were stews of bean curd laid out on the table between them, and slices of salted fish, but she wasn't hungry.

"Oh, good," he said, and smiled. "I have until spring to enjoy this peace between us, then." His teeth gleamed in the candlelight and Rukia had to duck her head so that he wouldn't see her flush, concentrating on the gold embroidery of his sleeve.

She jumped when Ichigo reached across the table and tugged playfully at her fingers.

"You have such small hands," he said. "Soft, too." He pushed his fingertips under hers and extended, spreading her hand out to its full size. The heel of his palm touched hers, warm like a fire. She looked up into his eyes and saw them smoldering, like coals.

Rukia pulled back, feeling burned by his desire.

"Kiyone, why don't you ever come down to the main hall for dinner? It's where everyone else eats every night. It's a lot livelier than sitting here by yourself. And I'd get to see you more often."

Rukia sniffed. "It's not _my _fault you don't get to see me. You're too busy making war, locked up in your conference room with all your advisors and generals. And when you're not talking and planning, you ride out to who knows where and I don't see you for days."

"So why don't you dine with everyone else, then? We'd get to see each other more often."

"You know why," said Rukia. She suppressed an angry little shiver at the thought of the whispers and vulgar slurs.

Back at Byakuya's court, she had been called beggar, gold-digger, peasant trash, painted beggar, coddled beggar, beggar in silks. But the perfumed, dainty nobles had never quite stooped to calling her a whore, and while the gossips may have been vicious, there was always the comforting reminder that she had power over all of them, as Lady Rukia of the Kuchiki house. Here, she had no power, and her only security lay in the fiery, fickle passion of Ichigo Kurosaki, her greatest enemy.

One of the maids stepped up to the table and presented a platter of beautiful, fat pears.

Ichigo pointed lazily at one and she lifted it, turning it this way and that for him to see. When he found no blemishes, he nodded and the maid handed the fruit to a servant boy who put it on a smaller plate, tied a red ribbon around the stem, and presented it to Rukia.

Rukia sucked in her lower lip. There was a thin, gold necklace making a ring around the platter. A small red jewel dangled over the edge as a pendant and the pear sat in the middle like a ripe sacrifice.

"See, this is exactly it," she said, not touching any of it. "Everyone thinks you're courting me and no one likes it. It's all very well for you, but I'm the one they're talking about. While you're having your fun, I'm the one who's being slandered. I can hear them whispering whenever I leave the room. Going to dinner in the hall would be like stepping into a den of snakes!"

He laughed, making her anger flare up even hotter. "Don't be so dramatic. Please, how bad can it be? You're a girl, aren't you? Aren't girls used to this sort of thing? It's always 'slut' this or 'whore' that or 'bitch' or whatever, always behind each other's backs. You shouldn't be bothered by it anymore."

Her eyes narrowed into slits. She watched him take a pear for himself, then cut into it with a paring knife. She watched the juice run down his hand, dripping onto the tabletop.

"Of course," she said. The urge to anger him as he had angered her was rising up like bile. "You're right. I have nothing to fear from these people because I'm just a shallow, witless little girl. And besides, the rumors that you're courting me are completely baseless. You haven't the wit or charm to court a sow in heat."

His right eye twitched at that.

"That's the difference between you and the man I _actually _love," she continued, relishing the venom in her voice, knowing that Ichigo hated to hear about her supposed other lover. "You may be the ruler of the North, but he's a better man, a better lover, and a better warrior than you'll ever be. He's as eloquent as the wisest sage. Compared to him, you bray like a donkey."

"I don't want to hear about him," said Ichigo, a dangerous purr in his voice.

"And he's a genius on the battlefield. I've seen him butcher hundreds of Northerners with little effort, but he's the most gentle lover when he takes his armor off. He kisses like a dream."

"Be quiet."

"Or what?" she shot back.

He glared at her. The paring knife in his hand clattered to the table, leaving a trail of sticky juice. His eyes gleamed as he raised the gouged fruit to his mouth and took a bite. She could hear it crunch between his teeth.

Deliberately, he brought his dripping fingers to his mouth and licked them. She saw his tongue dart out and lap at the juice, his eyes never losing that intense stare.

"You know," he said silkily, "just a few days ago, I led the charge on the western part of the 60th. We laid siege to the town of Tōma for a week."

He got up and stepped around the table over to her side. Rukia gritted her teeth as he reached over her shoulder and picked up the necklace on the platter.

She felt the metallic coldness of it like a knife as he drew it about her neck, stepping behind her to fasten the catch.

"We killed _many _Southerners the day we finally broke through," he said, his voice as low and husky as a whisper.

She shivered when he slid his fingers down the length of the chain, as if to adjust it on her neck. His fingertips were sticky. She could smell the pear juice on his skin. She could feel the excess of it lingering on her neck. Little sticky drops.

Her throat caught and she couldn't say a word, but she wanted him to wipe it off, not with his hand but with his tongue, as he had lapped it up on his own hand. She could feel the teasing ruffle of his breath on the back of her neck, and knew that his face was bent low over her. If she turned just a little, she could have kissed him full on the mouth.

"Your people put up a good fight, of course," he said. "But they died. They all fell, trying to defend that town. The ground was strewn with them, their purple cloaks all blood-stained."

She could feel her fingernails threatening to break from how hard she was grabbing the armrest. Her jaw ached from clenching. He was speaking in _that _voice again, so twisted with seduction that she couldn't tell whether he was lying to rile her up or telling the truth.

"There was one man in particular," he said, right in her ear so that she could feel his lips moving around every word. "Handsome. Dark-haired, gray-eyed. He was the last of them. Quite ferocious, really. I killed him myself. I wonder, could that have been your lover, hm?"

He kissed the side of her neck.

"He was brave, up to the very end, when I killed him and his pretty head rolled away on the ground. Was it him, Kiyone? Was it your lover that I killed?"

"Bastard," she growled. The little paring knife glinted invitingly, so she snatched it up, fully intending to pin his stupid, sticky fingers to the table.

"No, Mistress, you mustn't!" shrieked the serving girl, as Rukia brought the knife down.

But Ichigo had effortlessly caught Rukia's wrist and held it so tightly she dropped the knife back onto the table. His other hand came down on her shoulder, holding her down in the chair.

The maid, pale as paper, made as if to approach, but Ichigo shot her a look. "No, don't _you_ move. Or do you think I can't handle a little girl on my own?"

"Y-your Highness…!"

"Let go!" Rukia cried out, wriggling in his grasp. "I'll kill you! I'll rip your eyes out!"

To her surprise, he released her and she surged to her feet. She spun around with her hand curled into a fist, but he simply grabbed her arm as she faced him.

His cheeks were red and his jaw was clenched. Her other hand was poised to slap him but she let it fall to her side. There was a vicious pleasure curling up inside of her when she saw his face. She could see it in his eyes: the venom and spite that was born from jealousy.

Her lips twisted into a smile. In an instant, his arm came around her waist and she was pressed close to him. She heard him groan deeply as he bent her backwards so that she arched into him.

He kissed her harshly and she buried both hands in his hair, gripping tightly enough to hurt him. Her rear bumped into the table's edge as he pushed her backwards, bending her so that the two of them swayed like twisted saplings in the wind. His thigh pushed apart her quivering knees and pressed up against her groin.

She gasped and fought the urge to rub up against him like a cat, like a sow in heat. He sucked at her mouth as if he wanted to drink her up and she dragged her nails down the back of his neck.

He was hurting her, and she knew she was hurting him. But it was an intoxicating, addictive pain, and it set her heart beating so fast that she knew they had to stop. The heat in her belly would consume her if they didn't stop. She would forget every bit of her good breeding and tear the silk between them to pieces if they didn't stop.

With a wrench, she tore her mouth away from his. "Let go," she demanded.

He groaned again and buried his face in her neck, as if he couldn't bear to let her go.

"Let go, let go, let _go_!" she said, and cuffed him.

He thrust her away from him and they staggered apart, panting and red-faced. She saw the sweat drip from his hairline down to his chin. His teeth were bared. She could see the tendons in his neck, as if he were straining to keep himself back, straining to keep from flinging himself at her.

He made a lunge for the table and snatched up the knife. She flinched, wondering briefly if he would actually kill her.

Instead, he turned and slammed the knife down into the beribboned pear. She gulped and fisted the folds her clothes as the blade sunk into the fleshy curves, all the way up to its hilt. A spout of juice dribbled out and she could smell the ripeness of the sticky, pulpy fluid.

Ichigo uttered a low guttural curse, then stormed out.

Rukia released her breath in a huge, panting sigh. She realized that she had nearly bitten her lip to shreds and wiped at the thin dribble of blood with her sleeve.

"M-mistress?" the maid whimpered.

"Get out," Rukia snapped, too unsettled to bother with being courteous. "Leave me!"

"B-but…"

"Leave! Go on, go!"

The maid and the servant boy made to clear the table but Rukia put a hand on their backs and practically pushed them out the door.

"You too, Chad," she ground out, when she saw Chad waiting by the doorway. "Just… stay out there! Don't come in!"

She slammed the door so hard it shuddered.

With a frustrated cry, she ran to her bed, flung the covers aside, and threw herself onto the mattress.

Shuddering with the memory of his hands on her, she wrenched her robe open and reached inside to tweak at her breast. She moaned as she hiked up her skirts and thrust her other hand between her legs.

She was sweating, nearly mad with desire as she touched herself. Furious with herself, furious with him, she turned her face into the pillow and muffled her scream.

He was the only one who could do this to her, make her like him, then make her hate him as easily as pulling a puppet's strings, then seduce her with a single glance so that she wasn't sure whether to kiss him or strike him, whether to run her fingers through his hair with all the affection of a sister or slit his throat. He tormented her, made her crave him, long for him, hate him, until all the different emotions curdled together in her stomach like sour milk.

She wanted to kill him, even though she knew she'd grieve if he was dead.

She wanted to kiss him, strip him naked and curl up in bed with him, even though she knew she'd hate herself afterwards.

She didn't love him. She didn't love him. But for now…

For now, she desired him and it burned her up like fire.

X

There were dignitaries arriving. Trains of soldiers and horses and carriages had been coming in droves to the Red Maple. The castle gates had been thrown open to admit them: nobles, minor princes who owed their allegiance to Lord Kurosaki, mayors of large towns, magistrates, rich men.

Chad wondered if it was wise to let so many strangers in at once, especially with the number of people in each retinue. It was the perfect opportunity for spies to sneak in.

They had been invited to Ichigo's fortress, both as a celebration for the solstice and as a show of allegiance. The Warlord needed each and every one of the Northern states to be loyal beyond question. He needed men and funding for weapons, and those would have to come in part from the various leaders under Ichigo's rule.

Chad knew Ichigo hated the posturing and the pomp that went along with greeting all of the dignitaries. He knew Ichigo would be in a foul mood just anticipating it, and would be forcing his smiles all day. Ichigo had always been more at ease with military men, being a warrior from birth.

Not to mention, the entire house had been in chaos for the past few days. Before, Ichigo, his men, and his advisors had only used up a quarter of the Red Maple's full capacity. All the other rooms had remained vacant to conserve heat.

Now that important guests were arriving and needed accommodation, whole wings of the house needed to be aired and prepared.

Doors were thrown open for the first time in years. Floors were scrubbed vigorously until they shone. Great wooden logs were thrown on the fires to drive out the chill. Incense was burned in every room to rid the musty smell.

More money was pinched from the Warlord's purse to hire temporary servants from the surrounding towns. Many of them, peasants mostly, were happy to come and earn a few coins, happy to sample a slice of good living.

Chad sighed and leaned against the wall of the hallway. They were fighting again. They hadn't bothered to close the door and Chad could hear every word they were saying.

He peered into the open doorway. Ichigo and the Kotetsu girl were raising their voices to each other again, but haven't quite gotten to the level of shouting. There were clothes and yards of fabric thrown over the bed. There were scarves and colored ribbons flung over the backs of chairs. Baubles and all sorts of hair ornaments covered the tables.

He knew what the problem was. Probably the whole household knew what the problem was, as gossip traveled like the wind.

The Warlord had invited Mistress Kiyone to dinner in the main hall. After much arguing and griping, she had finally agreed.

Days later, when she found out that in fact, the dinner was to be held in the presence of dozens of Northern nobles, she fumed and accused Ichigo of wanting to show off, of wanting to parade a Southern hostage in front of the crowd, of wanting to mock her friendlessness.

Ichigo, in turn, had been affronted and accused _her _of being a coward and an ingrate.

Kiyone had not taken kindly to that, and called him a pigheaded, cud-chewing, carrot-top sot with half the brain of a particularly dim-witted dung beetle. A shouting match had broken out shortly afterwards, then slowly dissipated. Another erupted the following day and the day after that.

She conceded, then changed her mind, then conceded again. And now, on the day of the solstice, it seemed like she had gone back to refusing.

Chad watched her face Ichigo, small hands clenched and teeth bared, with the dignity of a princess and the stubbornness of a spoiled child.

"You're sending me into a snake pit!" she snarled at Ichigo, who snatched up a length of fabric just to shake it at her. "You _know _they'll eat me up as soon as I set foot in there. I hate them and they hate me!"

Ichigo looked ready to tear his hair out. "Argh, you're impossible! You're being stupid, you stupid, stupid…!"

"Don't call me stupid, you milk-faced…!"

She lashed out and caused a shelf to tumble down, scattering bracelets and rings.

"Stop breaking things!" Ichigo shouted. "_I'm _the one who pays for all this, you know. And shut up! How the hell would you know if they hate you? You've never even met them!"

"If how _your _stupid advisors treat me is anything to go by, then I'm sure these so-called princes will hate me on sight!"

As they continued shouting, Chad sighed and looked rather sadly at the fierce little girl. She was right. Ichigo had no idea.

Even though the Warlord might have turned a blind eye, Chad was the one who saw the angry, jealous stares, heard the vulgar rumors that followed her. The advisors that Ichigo kept in his service were shrewd and ambitious men, who hated the thought of a Southerner, especially a girl, taking up the Warlord's attention. They hated that she had charmed him with a sweep of her eyelashes, with a toss of her head, with the roll of her exotic accent.

Every time she passed by them, there was always a ripple of discontent. There was always a snatch of a whisper that they made sure she caught. And though she never broke down, Chad always saw the slight quiver of her shoulders, the thinning of her lips. He knew it hurt her and made her feel all the lonelier, all the more powerless in an enemy's land.

The bickering came to a lull as they both stopped to catch their breaths. Kiyone went to slump down on the bed.

"Here," said Ichigo, picking up a cherry red kimono with the tips of his fingers. "You should wear this one."

"Don't tell me what to wear," she growled. "And I never said I was going."

He shook out the garment, letting the light catch the silky fineness of it. The red, _his _red, flashed merrily.

Chad recognized it as a new one. Ichigo probably bought it for her.

"I think it's just the right size, too," said Ichigo.

"Even so…" Kiyone muttered. A second later, her head snapped up and a blush started to bloom across her cheeks. "Wha-! How the hell would _you _know if it's just the right size? Have you been spying on me while I change?"

In an instant, Ichigo turned just as red and dropped the kimono as if it had burnt him. "NO! You're crazy!"

"You have, haven't you? I knew it! You pervert!"

She sprang to her feet and went for him, fists out.

"Oh, a pervert, am I?" Ichigo growled, and easily caught her by the wrists.

She said something low and husky that Chad couldn't make out, then Ichigo was leaning into her and saying something in that same husky voice.

They grappled and Ichigo seemed to wrench her arm. She cried out sharply, as if in pain, and Chad tensed, wondering if he should intervene.

The thought quickly perished when he saw her reach up and grab a fistful of orange hair, yanking Ichigo down for an open-mouthed kiss. Ichigo made a deep groaning noise and his hands went down to her hips, patting her sides, pulling at her clothes. She reached downwards for the crotch of his trousers and writhed against him like a cat.

Face burning, Chad darted forward and shut their door with a click, then leaned against it to keep anyone from going in. He refused to think about how careless or shameless they were, how easily they fell into each other, again and again.

Chad, who watched them, knew how it was like. It would always start with sweetness between them, then a spark would set them off. They would fight, she as barbed as a poisoned arrow, he as fierce and cruel as wildfire. It might come to fisticuffs, it might not, but it always ended up in a terrific blaze of passion.

Then, they would simmer down and smolder into sweetness again. They would pet and kiss and smile, acting as if they adored each other. This would last until the next spark, the next fight, and the dance would start again.

They always stopped short of actually having each other. Though they would wrestle and fondle and she would moan and he would pant like a dog, they always stopped short of tumbling into bed. She probably feared for her dignity and her Southern allegiances, and he probably feared for his sanity.

Chad thought it was either a very good match, or a very bad one, but either way, it was destructive. For the both of them.

There was a sharp gasp from within and a deep, guttural groan. There was the sound of rustling cloth.

Chad moved away when the door was opened from the inside. Ichigo stepped out, a dizzy look in his eyes. There was a fresh bite mark on his neck, red as blood. He left without a word to Chad.

Inside, Kiyone was casually flinging open chests and drawers, tossing clothes about as if she were an ordinary girl, getting dressed for an ordinary dinner on an ordinary night. She had a smug look on her face and a rosy blush on her cheeks.

Chad saw her pick up the red kimono and lay it down on the bed. He watched her run her hand down the front of it, smiling at the silky feel.

She turned and took three swift steps to the wooden chest on her right. Out of it, she pulled another kimono. It was deep purple, as dark as the plums that flourished in the mild weather of the South. She hugged it to her chest with a happy little sigh.

She spread both kimono out on the bed, the red and the purple.

She lifted the red one and slipped it on, folding the two sides over her breasts. Ichigo was right: it _was _a perfect fit. A little twirl had the bright red skirt flaring out like a banner, the light flashing on the fortune's worth of gold embroidery.

If she wore it, the red of his household and the red of his generals' cloaks, everyone would know that she was _his _girl. Everyone would know that she had accepted her place in his house, that she had accepted _him_.

She shrugged it off and let it pool in a crimson heap on the floor. She chose the purple kimono, and when she turned her head to the side to look in the mirror, her violet eyes blazed with defiant satisfaction.

Anyone else might have picked a different color altogether, perhaps blue, as a sign of serenity and peace. But with her, it was either one or the other and nothing in between, either complete submission or open defiance.

The servant girl, Michiru, arrived shortly and helped her tie the embroidered obi. She combed out Kiyone's hair and held it back as she washed her face in a brass basin.

After she was done, she perched herself over the narrow window and watched the people arriving. Sounds of happy laughter and the smell of wine drifted up from the floor below. She leaned on the window frame so that her face was thrown into shadow and sighed. Her breath came out in a little white mist.

"Well, I suppose it's time," Kiyone said finally. She smiled and Chad saw the slight quaver in her lips.

He escorted her down the stairs and to the main hall. The happy, joyful noises got louder with each step and Chad saw her shoulders stiffen.

She paused slightly at the entrance. He saw her straighten, saw her roll her shoulders back and smooth out the front of her clothes. She took a deep breath, as if fortifying herself, and stepped in.

The table ran the length of the dining hall and Ichigo sat at its head, like the head of a lazy dragon stretched out to its full length. The princes and the nobles were all decked out in lovely clothes, and the jewels that peeked out from between fasteners and clasps shimmered like scales. The polished tabletop was aglow, reflecting the soft light of the candles and lamps.

Ichigo was smiling his courtier's smile, nodding at whatever joke or piece of news someone shouted up to him. His head turned like a sunflower on its stalk when he noticed her. His eyes lit up and he looked like he was on the verge of rising, but then caught himself.

Someone at the door announced her arrival, introducing her as Lady Kiyone Kotetsu, a noblewoman of the South.

She was motioned to a seat that was quite close to the Warlord himself, quite close to the very crown of the North. She sat rather unsteadily and Chad saw her hid her hands in her sleeves, probably so no one would see them tremble.

The princes and mayors, the fawning nobles, the gentlemen in their high headdresses, the ladies with their puckered mouths hidden behind fans, all turned to look at her. Their gazes were lazy and measuring. They rolled their glances off her, arched their brows as if they knew every sordid detail of her supposed relationship with the Warlord.

She didn't flinch. Instead, she half-stood, squared her shoulders, and returned their languid, judging gazes with the look of hardened soldier.

"Good evening to you all," she said, her voice as clear as water, smooth and exotic. She sat again, sweeping the hem of her kimono aside as if to flaunt her choice of color.

This drew some reluctant mutterings of "Madam," and "Good evening," from the assembled guests. They all quickly returned to their conversations, utterly ignoring her, unwilling to give her the honor of being something pretty and interesting. It was unacceptable to resort to insults and name-callings at the Warlord's banquet, so her enemies chose the next best thing: ignoring her presence and by doing that, robbing her of any importance.

Not that she was any worse off for it, from what Chad could tell. She was perched at the table like a dark little raven, eyes so intense that there was a violet blaze whenever she turned her head and the candlelight reflected off them. Next to her, the painted, perfumed people of the court were as insubstantial as smoke.

Chad stood with the other guardsmen and watched the musicians tune their instruments from behind a silk curtain, watched the dancing girls lean over their own table in the corner and smile coquettishly at the gentlemen, watched the servants bring in dish after dish to lay on the polished table.

The air was warm and sweet with pinches of herbs thrown into the braziers. Ichigo had lifted the meat ban from his household for the banquet, and there were great roast birds and cuts of beef and boiled meatloaves brought in. Rice wine was poured into delicate cups and jugs of it were poured and poured again so that the heady perfume of it lingered in the room.

As Kiyone picked up her ivory chopsticks and put clumps of rice in her mouth, witticisms and snatches of courtly talk flew between the guests and Ichigo. He would laugh and joke with them and speak to them as if they were friends, he needing their allegiances and military power, and they desiring whatever favors and land he could grant them, and all of them wanting to prove that they were the richest, most beautiful, and most charming courtiers ever to set foot in the Warlord's house.

Topics ranged from last year's crop, to the declining horse trade in the Northern districts, to the newest pieces of work offered up by the popular essayists. There were hints of small uprisings in the far North, and Ichigo laughed it off, shrugging his shoulders.

Talk of the war was discouraged. No one wanted death with their dinner, so strategizing and treaties would have to wait until tomorrow.

A loud, boorish voice drew Chad's attention to the middle of the table. He recognized the rather gangly, big-toothed man as Nnoitra Jiruga, the son of a magistrate. Chad had to suppress a feeling of uneasiness when the man stood on his spindly legs and loudly toasted to the Warlord's good health.

Ichigo saw the gesture and raised his cup with a nod.

"… and to His Highness' good fortune in finding a wife!" Jiruga finished with a flourish. Some of the ladies tittered and Ichigo himself laughed heartily.

"Unfortunately, Mr. Jiruga," replied the Warlord, "it's quite difficult for me to marry while I'm in the middle of leading a war."

"And besides," shouted someone else, who was clearly slurring with drink, "His Highness has had plenty of women without the need to be married! There's no need to bottle up the honey when you can suck it straight from the hive." He made an obscene slurping noise and the others laughed, appreciative of the bawdiness.

Another magistrate spoke up, shaking his head. "No good, no good. When Lord Kurosaki wins the war, he will be king. A king can't make do with bastards. He needs a legitimate heir to come after him. And I say the sooner the better. Being a Warlord is dangerous business and we need someone to lead us if he falls."

"I thank you for your sentiments," Ichigo replied. "But I'm afraid I have no need of an heir just now. My sisters back home shall take over if I am to die in battle, Heaven forbid."

"Heaven forbid," echoed the courtiers, nodding dutifully.

"But Heaven knows that our beloved Warlord has the virility to sire as many heirs as he wants!" declared Jiruga, laughing with his teeth bared. "Just ask any of the chambermaids!"

A roar of laughter followed. The talk quickly descended into bawdy, open humor, which made the ladies giggle and fan away their blushes with their hands and the men slap the table with mirth.

"Yes indeed!" said Jiruga. "Lord Kurosaki is certainly doing his duty to provide his future kingdom with heirs. Why, in the absence of a wife, he's doing _twice_ as much tupping to compensate for her share!"

A dark-haired woman next to him gave a scream of laughter. "I bet the woman His Highness finally marries will be satisfied from day till night!"

"He's certainly doing better than Byakuya Kuchiki and his shriveled prick!"

The other men had the dishes rattling with the pounding of their fists, guffawing at the mockery of their enemy. Chad shot a worried glance at Ichigo and sure enough, the Warlord had a frosty look on his face. Ichigo Kurosaki might not have much sympathy for his enemies, but he always maintained a certain respect for them.

"No heirs to speak of for the Kuchikis, in all these years," continued Jiruga. "His late wife probably died from lack of pleasing. Poor woman's cunt must've been dried up like a prune when they put her in the ground. Perhaps her husband preferred to tup his pet hounds instead."

Chad caught it before everyone else, as everyone else was staring either in amusement or disgust at Nnoitra Jiruga. Chad was the one who saw that Kiyone's shoulders tensed, like a bowstring being drawn tight to the breaking point.

Like a spark, she shot up and Chad realized that she was going to do something utterly reckless. He started running across the room just as she planted both feet onto the table and lunged over to Jiruga's side. Kicking over plates and cups as she went, Kiyone punched the man right in the face.

No one at the table had time to react. The man went down under her small fist with a screech of shock and pain. He crashed to the floor like a spider that had its strings snipped.

In an instant, Chad had rushed over, pushed past two of the silk-clad ladies, and snatched Kiyone up into an unbreakable embrace. Just in time, as she was already pulling her fist back for another pummeling.

She was white-faced with rage. She didn't struggle or even speak, but Chad could feel her trembling in his arms.

The whole room erupted into shouts and exclamations of anger and disbelief. Ichigo was standing up, flushed and shouting for Chad to remove her and shouting for one of the servants to fetch a physician. Jiruga himself was howling, clutching both hands over his face while blood streamed from his nose.

Out of the corner of his eye, Chad could see Orihime Inoue stuffing her scarf into her mouth, to keep from either screaming or laughing, or a mix of both.

"Get her out of here! Chad, take her away!" Ichigo shouted, gesticulating furiously.

Chad could see two of the magistrate's hired guards making their way menacingly towards them, so he hefted Kiyone up in his arms and whisked her away in a whirl of purple cloth.

He tried to set her down as soon as they left the hall, but she was unsteady on her feet and banged her ankle on the stairs. He grabbed her up again and didn't let go until they reached her room.

She broke away from him as soon as the door was shut. One of her hair ornaments scratched his cheek as she lurched away.

With a sharp, frustrated cry, she threw herself across her bed and hit the mattress with clenched fists. The cloth of her kimono pooled around her, seemingly too big for her body. Her head, buried into the comforter, looked heavy and tired with the weight of the tinkling hair ornaments. She turned her head to rub her cheek on the smoothness of the comforter, and her big, watery eyes made her seem even more childlike than before.

She didn't speak for a long while, just lay there, trembling like a bowstring after it had been plucked. She didn't speak, but sniffled once or twice. She looked like she was listening for the sounds of the party from below, but the sounds of mild music and drunken laughter was now muted.

He felt a pang of sadness for her, this fierce little child whose passion was like fire, flaring and dimming whichever way the wind blew. Ichigo would lock her up again for this, no matter how out of line Jiruga might have been. Whatever favor she had garnered from him before would surely be lost.

"Perhaps," Chad spoke up, slowly and gently, "that wasn't the wisest thing to do."

"I know," she said. "I hurt my hand. That stupid, bony scoundrel has a hard face." She sat up and showed him her bruised knuckles. She had a plaintive little pout on her face, but was otherwise unapologetic.

"Shall I get the physician for you?" Chad asked.

"Hmph. No. The physician's probably busy with Mr. Bone Head."

Chad couldn't be sure, but there might have been some smugness in those words.

She brought her hand to her mouth and sucked on the knuckles.

Chad sighed. "Ichigo will be angry with you," he remarked. "I think you embarrassed him. He might confine you to your room again."

"Ichigo can do what he likes to me," she said. The lazy roll of her voice and the slight thrust of her chest was oddly suggestive. "I don't care. That _pig_ deserved it for insulting Lord Kuchiki. And Lady Kuchiki."

She gazed up at him. "Thank you, by the way," she said. "I… I'm sure I would have gotten myself into bigger trouble if you hadn't stopped me. Thank you for getting me out of there before the other guards could arrest me or, hell, even kill me."

A smile tugged at the corners of Chad's mouth. "You're welcome." In all honesty, the guardsman couldn't be certain that he had _not _hesitated to stop her, just the slightest bit so that she had time to deck the man.

X

It was sunny that day. The window was cracked open and the chilly outside breeze made the dust motes dance in the light.

Jushiro Ukitake truly felt like an old man then, as he breathed in the familiar scent of incense on the brazier and remembered better, more peaceful days.

He thought of the days when Byakuya Kuchiki was still the young, handsome ruler that married for love, valued honor as gold, and took over the title of Warlord with all the poise and grace of a prince. Byakuya had been so young, so promising, so very _new _and alive after the grim reign of his father. Everyone had loved him, genuinely loved him, from the highest magistrates to the lowliest peasants. From the corrupt courtiers of the previous generation, with their jeweled fingers and their trickery and their double-dealing, to the fishmongers in the streets, stinking and with their hands covered in scales, everyone had adored Byakuya Kuchiki.

Jushiro remembered the peace treaty that had been signed between Byakuya and Isshin Kurosaki, when the court was at its height of elegance and culture. Even now, as he nodded over stretched strings and curled his fingers to pluck at them, Jushiro remembered the happiness and the quiet prosperity, a feeling as sweet as the thrum of music.

So, it was an odd mixture of horror and resignation that Jushiro felt when he saw the two long, silver strands amidst Byakuya's raven hair.

Byakuya Kuchiki had aged. Something within him had grown sour and bitter over the years, and the good times had gone the same way.

Isshin Kurosaki was dead. In his place, like a spark from a fire, Ichigo had sprung up in all his glory. He was virile and young and an expert in combat, more than 20 years Byakuya's junior. He was hot-blooded, hot for the battle, so terribly hungry for glory and honor, so terribly hungry for everything.

And Byakuya had aged. Hisana had died, and part of him had died with her. Love turned into suspicion. Honor turned into stubborn pride. He became wary of traitors and spies in his own midst. He became less scrupulous in battle, out of a desperate need to prove himself better, more worthy than the young upstart of the North.

And Jushiro was pained when the arrests became more and more frequent, when books were banned for being unpatriotic and military decisions became reckless, staked on pride. Jushiro, who had loved his pupil like a son, was pained when Byakuya drifted further and further away from his true friends.

There was a loud knocking. The last note hummed, like the buzz of a bee, as Jushiro's front door was thrown open.

Standing there grinning, as if the music had somehow lured him to Jushiro's doorstep, was Gin Ichimaru. Behind him, were purple-clad guards.

The manservant was rushing forward, demanding to know why they were intruding.

"Hello, Commander," said Ichimaru pleasantly. He ignored the indignant cries of the manservant. Without bothering to remove his shoes, he stepped in and approached the tatami mat where Jushiro was sitting. "I see you have been playing the Qin. How very cultured of you."

"What is this, Ichimaru?" Jushiro said angrily, standing. The guards that Ichimaru had brought with him were making their way into Jushiro's home, busting into rooms and scrambling up stairs.

"Oh, nothing to worry about, as long as you're not hiding anything" Ichimaru replied. "It's just a search."

"I won't allow it."

"Hah! How amusing, that you think it's your choice. Lord Kuchiki has ordered it. His Highness would be very much at ease if he knew his friends were free from the suspicion of treason and espionage."

The brightly colored badge on Ichimaru's arm caught Jushiro's eyes. It named Gin Ichimaru as an official, giving him the honor of being called "Mr. Inquisitor" whenever he took on the role.

So there it was, Jushiro thought. They had come for him at last. They would find _something _to incriminate him. It didn't matter what, but they would find it. Arrest and shame would follow shortly.

Ichimaru was smiling again. But it wasn't the courtier's smile or the wicked little smirk Ichimaru reserved for taunting people. It was a full smile, brimming with sadistic pleasure at the sound of breaking crockery and smashing wood from within.

"And what have I done to deserve such suspicion?" Jushiro said, glaring and nearly shaking with anger.

"Oh, I think you know."

"Why don't you tell me? With all the other arrests going on, and all the other men you so delight in taking into custody, I'm not quite sure what treason is anymore. Is breathing considered treason?"

"Depends on who's doing the breathing, my dear Commander Ukitake," Ichimaru said pleasantly. He took a step closer, the heel of his foot scraping against the tatami. "Or should I say: Ex-General Ukitake? That's what you are, right? An ex-general, well past his glory days, confined to his bed most of the time, probably resentful. An ex-general who has refused to support His Highness' latest campaign in the North, who stirs up unease and rebellious attitudes among the people. Someone who is part of an ancient noble family and oddly, has much to gain if His Highness should ever fall from power. Someone who has been known to have sympathies for the Northerners, going so far as to take in a fugitive from the North as your manservant."

Jushiro saw said manservant pale and shuffle nervously. He glared at Ichimaru. "I do _not _stir up unease among the people. And I have made it abundantly clear why I don't support Lord Kuchiki's latest campaigns. Attacking a town full of civilians before they have a chance to evacuate is thoughtless and cruel!"

"_Northern _civilians, Mr. Ex-General."

"_Any _civilians! And to attack while Kurosaki's forces are already pinned down by a rebellion from the Far North? It would be like stabbing an enemy from behind!"

"My, my, how dangerously honorable you are," purred Ichimaru. "Careful. You almost sound as if you have more sympathy for our enemies than for our own troops."

One of the guards descended the stairs, carrying a rolled-up scroll in his hands.

"Oh!" exclaimed Ichimaru, looking like a child about to receive a gift. "What have you brought me?"

"I found this in one of the upstairs rooms," said the guard and let the scroll unravel into a painting. The broad, bold brushstrokes and vibrant colors were painfully clear: it was a painting in the Northern style. The other guards all gathered around to look, some of them clutching broken pieces of pottery and looking resentful that someone else had found the most incriminating piece of evidence.

"My, how very interesting," said Ichimaru. He stepped deliberately over the tatami and leaned down to peer at the daring sweep of each brushstroke. His smile was widening, stretching over his face like the unfurling tail of a scorpion. "And how did you come to own such a thing, eh Commander?"

"It was a _gift_," said Jushiro in a clipped tone.

"From General Shunsui Kyoraku, I presume? I understand you and he were friends?"

Jushiro gritted his teeth. "When he gave it to me, it was not yet illegal for us to be friends."

"But you still kept it, all these years?"

"It is considered rude to return a gift, Ichimaru, even if alliances and treaties change."

In response, the grinning man threw his silver head back and laughed. "Oh no, no. I wasn't suggesting that you should have returned it. You should have _burned _it, my dear, dear ex-general. You should have burned it, and maybe saved yourself from being burned instead."

"How dare you!" Jushiro snapped. Immediately, the pressure and pain built up in his chest and he pitched forward with a gasp. Loud, hacking coughs shook his body so that he swayed like a drunkard.

"Sir!" exclaimed the manservant and he rushed to Jushiro's aid, but two of the guards grabbed hold of him and kept him from going to his master.

When Jushiro was finally able to catch his breath, he found that he was bent double and staring down at Ichimaru's shoes. The man had come to stand in front of him as he coughed his way through blood and phlegm, so that when Jushiro rose, it looked as if he was rising from a deep bow.

"You are a scoundrel, Gin Ichimaru," said Jushiro, voice creaking and husky. "Tell your dogs to unhand Mr. Kotsubaki. He hasn't done anything wrong."

Jushiro knew that he and Sentaro were outnumbered. The guards surrounding them were armed. He was weak and light-headed. One signal from Ichimaru could have the both of them arrested and shipped off to be tortured or killed.

Gritting his teeth, Jushiro swallowed down the pain and the fear, and the awful sense of betrayal that it was Byakuya who had ordered this. He drew himself up to his full height and stared Ichimaru down. "You have no evidence against me. Get out of my house."

"We shall see," the other simply replied. He waved his hand lazily, trailing his long-nailed fingers through the air, and turned to leave. The guards followed him, releasing Sentaro but taking with them the bits and pieces of Jushiro's house that they would no doubt break apart, looking for something that would put Jushiro's head on the block.

X

"When can I go out again?" whined Kiyone Kotetsu. The plaintive pitch of her voice would have tugged at his heartstrings, if Ichigo's patience wasn't already on edge from the headache-inducing smoke that trailed upwards from her pipe.

She probably only smoked to annoy him, he thought.

"You can'tgo out," he said. "That's the point. You're being confined for assaulting the magistrate's son."

She was sprawled on the bed and she looked up at him with those large violet eyes. "He deserved it."

"He did _not_, you reckless idiot. But regardless, he's now demanding your head on a platter. He's saying he'll refuse to support me in the war unless I give him satisfaction. You're lucky to get away with just being confined. You have one of the most powerful and richest men in the land after your blood. Think of that!"

She blinked up at him and stretched out on her belly, like a cat sunning itself. Ichigo felt his anger spike.

"Well?" he demanded. "Don't you have anything to say?"

"What? You want me to say I'm sorry? I'm not."

"I meant that you should thank me. You do realize that I'm the one keeping you safe? That I can just as well have you thrown in prison? Or just let Jiruga cut off your head?"

She threw him a long, languid look and rose from her bed. She was wrapped up in shawls and scarves, all the way up to her throat, but her feet were naked as she padded her way over to him. Ichigo caught himself staring down at those little naked feet and he remembered the feel of her heel in his hands, the curling toes.

"Do _not_ kiss me with that mouth," he said, when she leaned towards him. He held her by the shoulders as she tipped forward. "Not when you've been smoking. You taste like ash."

She frowned at him, brought the pipe to her lips, and blew smoke in his face. It set him coughing furiously and he felt his annoyance wash over him like a wave. He grabbed her harshly and shook her.

"I don't know why I keep you," he growled. She was limp under his hands, lolling like a wide-eyed doll. "I don't know why I put up with you, pay your bills, feed you. You're nothing but trouble. You embarrassed me. You cost me an ally. You!"

_You. _The word fell like hammer.

Her. She infuriated him. Only she could do this to him, make him want her and hate her and loathe himself for both. Only she could make his desire feel like a knife wound: sweet and painful and hot.

He had her life in his hands. In an instant, he could have guards drag her out, set her on a plank, and behead her. He could strangle her. He could run her through with a sword. He could kiss her. He could embrace her and lose himself in the unique feel of her: soft and warm and bony all at once.

It was a terrible feeling, an awful feeling, to mix up the sweetness of love and the hot sharpness of hate.

He pushed her away from her and she went, flailing, to fall on the bed. The ash was knocked from the pipe and she tossed it into the small ceramic dish on the side table.

"So kill me, then," she said nonchalantly, shrugging. "Or flog me. Or drown me. Or piss in my tea. Who cares? I'm stuck in here, being slowly bored to death anyway."

"Well, you should've thought of that before you went and punched someone. At a festival banquet, no less."

He turned on his heel to leave, but then stopped. "Oh, by the way, give it back."

"Give what back?" she said innocently.

"You know what. My journal. I know you've taken it again."

"I don't know what you're talking about," she said, and widened her eyes like a child.

He made to grab at her and she backpedaled away from him.

"Oh, fine! Here." Reaching under a pillow, she drew out his journal and flung it at his chest. "Take the stupid thing. I can't break the code, anyway."

"Well, that's good," he replied smugly. "But if you can't read it, why keep stealing it?"

"If you know I can't read it, why not just let me keep it?" she shot back.

"Because," he said, turning his back, "I don't trust you not to get someone else to break the code for you."

"You know, Ichigo," she said softly, just as he was about to cross the threshold, "if someone insulted _you _like that, I would punch them too, festival banquet or not." Her voice was thin, like a little girl's.

He didn't allow himself to pause. He didn't allow himself to linger at her doorstep or else he would have been tempted to stay, and that made him all the more irritated. Instead, he shoved his journal down the front of his clothes and let the door bang on his way out.

"Oh, put that away," he growled, as he strolled into the study, where General Kyoraku and Sosuke Aizen were waiting. Kyoraku was smoking a pipe. "You know I can't stand the smell of it."

Ichigo went to throw open a window and sucked in a great deep gulp of air, trying to dispel the mild nausea. He sucked in the cold, trying to dispel the memory of her warm body.

"Tell me about the uprisings in the Far North," he said curtly.

Aizen stepped closer and straightened the glasses on the bridge of his nose. "According to reports," he said, reading from a sheaf of papers, "the rebels have been increasing in number ever since the last company was sent to subdue them. They are mostly from the 13th and 15th districts and they have been mobilizing in great numbers, attacking our supply routes and waylaying passing troops."

Ichigo waved his hand impatiently. "So send another company," he said. "Relieve the officer who was in charge of the first one for being an incompetent fool and send someone who _can _deal with a bunch of rowdy peasants."

"Perhaps you should be more cautious," Kyoraku said gently. "I don't think these are just a bunch of rowdy peasants. If the reports are to be believed, then the leather for their boots and the steel for their swords have to come from somewhere, or someone. I'm worried there are people acting against you, Ichigo, people more powerful and treacherous than peasants."

Ichigo shook his head in annoyance. "That's your answer to everything, isn't it?" he said nastily. "It's always 'someone' or 'something' that isn't happy with me, and everything is conspiracies and plots. Maybe _you're _the one who's unhappy with me."

Aizen stepped forward, smile ready, and said, "Your Highness, I'm sure the good general isn't displeased with you. And I'm sure he doesn't mean to insinuate that Your Highness is not a competent ruler."

"Oh no, Mr. Strategist," said Kyoraku. "I do mean to insinuate. And I _am _displeased, as is natural whenever His Highness is foolish enough to needlessly put lives at risk."

"Watch your tongue!" Ichigo snapped. He hadn't forgotten his anger towards his old mentor for the failure of the peace treaty, and it galled him to see Kyoraku still so self-assured, even when he had been brought low.

"Or what? You'll cut it out? Come now, Ichigo you're not a child anymore. Tantrums will get us nowhere."

"Well what the hell do you want from me, old man? You want me to ride out and make peace with the peasants myself?"

"I want you to send a full battalion. Every instinct tells me that this so-called minor uprising is more than what it seems. We need to crush it before it has a chance to spread."

Aizen chuckled at this. "How very heartless you are, General. I always thought you had more sympathy for the commoners."

The look Kyoraku threw back at him was hard and cold. "A rebellion is a rebellion," he said simply. "Whether it's commoners or nobles who rebel, people on both sides will get hurt. The uprising needs to be crushed. That's all there is to it."

"I'm not going to send a full battalion," said Ichigo, shaking his head. "I won't waste my troops and resources over a matter like this. It's just a simple uprising."

X

It was only a week later that the "little peasant uprising" turned out to be much bigger and deadlier than anyone had expected. These men, armed and mobilized, were an organized fighting force, not the ragtag group of farmers that most of Ichigo's men were led to believe.

And it was only a week later that they struck.

Rukia, who had been allowed out of her rooms for the afternoon, was playing a game of dice in the parlor with Orihime and Shunsui Kyoraku when the messenger arrived. They were in the entrance hall of the Red Maple, where the large windows would let in more light.

The messenger burst in through the heavy doors, pale as death and with a trickle of blood down the side of his face.

"You must sound the alarm!" he gasped, as the guards caught him before he could fall. "You must warn Lord Kurosaki!"

There was an odd sense of dread spreading through Rukia's body as she watched Kyoraku bend down to pat the man's cheek, chafe the man's frozen hands. She could see it in the man's eyes, a horror that had stolen the very breath from him, a horror he had brought back from the battlefield.

Rukia felt a tug at her arm and saw that Orihime, who had lost her bright and happy smile, had come around the table to cling tight to her.

"They are here!" wheezed the man. "They are already here! More than a thousand men. More than we'd imagined, heavily armed. They are… they are here!"

He fainted away, and Rukia wondered if he was dead. Orihime cried out softly. The grip on Rukia's arm tightened to the point of pain.

Kyoraku set the man down and stood. His lips, which had been curved into an easy smile just minutes ago, were now hard and thin.

"Miss Inoue, Lady Kotetsu, perhaps you should-"

The warning froze on his lips when a shout was raised from somewhere deep in the house. It was followed by a great clamor and panicked screams. There was the sound of wood breaking and the thud of metal.

"Impossible!" Orihime gasped. "They've infiltrated the house! That's-!"

With a tremendous bang, the front door burst inwards in a golden explosion of fire and smoke. The two guards were knocked off their feet.

Momentarily blinded, Rukia heard Orihime scream, felt a splinter of wood strike her in the head so that she staggered.

There was a crash as the table was toppled over. She coughed desperately, horror threatening to choke her as coarse, black-clad men fought their way in through the remains of the door.

Through the haze of pain and smoke, she saw Shunsui Kyoraku throw off his heavy haori and fling it into the mass of intruders. Metal glinted as he drew both his swords in one fluid motion and slashed the air, splitting the cloth of his haori and splitting the limbs of the enemy.

In an instant, Kyoraku was engulfed. Dozens of them were pouring into the hall, breaking the windows, gouging the wooden walls with arrows. They were furious. They were screaming with rage and Rukia could smell nothing and hear nothing but the stench of smoke and the shrieks of those that were caught in the attack.

"Get down!" Rukia gasped, and dragged a trembling Orihime to huddle behind the overturned table. There was a heavy thud from somewhere, a teeth-chattering impact, and then another explosion.

She could barely breathe through the stink of sulfur. How could it be, Rukia thought wildly, that a handful of peasant rebels could have gotten their hands on explosives?

"We'll all be killed," moaned Orihime, a soft, shaking mass in Rukia's arms. "We'll all be killed, or worse!"

Death had never seemed so near as this, with only the cracking wood of a tabletop between them and the angry hoard. Even on the battlefield, Rukia hadn't felt so helpless, so vulnerable. But she wasn't about to go down without a fight.

"Orihime," she croaked, wiping her streaming eyes. "We're going to have to make a run for it. The little door that leads out from the kitchen! We can escape through there."

_Where's Chad? _Rukia thought desperately. Oh, of all times for him to leave her alone!

"Come on, Orihime!" she cried. With the other girl's hand crushed in her own, Rukia jumped to her feet and ran. She flailed her way through the confusion and the smoke. Everywhere, people were running and screaming. There were guards milling about, shouting at each other and hearing nothing.

Raggedly, she ran and she dragged Orihime mercilessly behind her. Twice, Rukia had to drop to her knees shielding her head with her arms because another shattered bomb had gone off, raining them in fire and broken debris.

Her face was cut. She could feel the blood dripping down into her collar. She felt numb, almost as if someone else had taken over her body and was screaming in her voice, running with her raw, scraped feet, because it surely couldn't be real, could it? Not this nightmare of death and fire.

"What about Ichigo?" Orihime gasped, as they finally reached the kitchen, dropping before the smoldering hearth in a heap of exhaustion. "Wh-what if he's…"

"Sweetheart," Rukia ground out, "I'm sure he's fine." She panted for breath and drew a sleeve across her face. It came away dark with blood and soot.

"B-but what about Michiru and the others? What about Madame and Chad and-"

A man with his face half blistered off barreled into their hiding place. Orihime broke off in a scream as he raised a bloody sword high over his head and brought it down. She tore away from him but the blade caught her sleeve, tearing it.

There was the glint of blood lust in the man's eyes. It was the look of someone bent on killing, someone who had been driven into a frenzy of excitement and twisted anger, someone who didn't care who he killed as long as his sword tasted blood. He was dressed in black, like the rest of them, and the front of his clothes were soaked.

Rukia scrambled for a weapon, heard him pant like an enraged bull, and grabbed a skillet off the shelves. It was heavy, and she swung it with all her might, hitting the man in the side of his face. He dropped like a brick.

But there came more to replace him, swarming in through the kitchen entryway like wolves on the scent.

"Run! Run!" Rukia screamed, until her throat was raw. She saw one of them seize Orihime by the hair. She heard them laugh, the coarse, lusty laughter of men half-crazed with violence.

Someone had come up behind her and caught her up in a headlock. She choked. She wriggled and kicked out but to no avail.

But the pressure was gone in an instant and Rukia dropped to the ground, retching and banging her knees. She raised her head and saw the glint of a sword, the twirl of someone's kimono. Shunsui Kyoraku was there, swords bloodied and a trail of blood trickling down from his hairline, but otherwise quite composed.

It was a few seconds later, as he was raising Orihime to her feet that Rukia understood that he had rescued them, dispatched their enemies as easily as if they were children.

Then, he was taking her elbow and pulling her to her feet, gently but urgently.

"Back into the battle, I'm afraid," he said. "May I entrust Miss Inoue to you?"

"Y-yes," Rukia said, teeth chattering with exertion. He slung a near-fainting Orihime over Rukia's shoulders.

"Make for the stables," said Kyoraku. "Take a horse and get away from here, if you can. Make for the nearby villages and warn them. Take refuge with them. And take care of her, will you, Rukia? I'm rather fond of this one."

He gave her a roguish wink and was gone with a flick of his kimono.

"Alright!" Rukia called after him. She turned and dashed out the side door, with Orihime clinging to her. Something nagged at her as they ran. Something was _off _about the way Kyoraku had addressed her. But in the frenzy to escape, Rukia thought no more of it.

They trudged through an ankle-deep pile of garbage, ignoring the stink and the slime. It was the dump behind the kitchens, where the scullery maids threw out the slops and the cinders from the day's cooking.

They broke out into a run as they reached the openness of a courtyard. It was a cold day, and each breath seemed to ice the insides of Rukia's chest.

They stumbled and fell into each other, grabbed each other to get up again. Rukia's nostrils were filled with sweat and soot, and the overwhelming crush of fear. This wasn't her battle. These weren't her people. She didn't want to die in this place, caught up in a battle that she had no place in. That thought spurred her on, made her want to survive.

"Come on," she muttered grimly, and they made a dash across the courtyard, past the frozen garden, towards the stables.

But it was hopeless. Even before they got within 10 yards of the stables, they could hear the clang of metal, the shouts of battle, and the shrieks of frightened horses. There was smoke in the air there as well, along with the stench of charred horseflesh. The rebels had fired the stables, trapping the animals inside, and probably the people too.

Rukia felt sick. She wanted to vomit.

Beside her, Orihime doubled over and groaned. "This can't be happening," she whimpered. "Where are our men? Where are the soldiers that were supposed to protect us? How could this happen?"

"No choice," said Rukia. "We'll have to escape on foot. Look, that's the way to the woods. We'll make a run for it. Maybe they won't find us there, and we can get to the nearest village to warn them."

"You'll have to leave me. I… I can't run anymore."

"No _choice_," Rukia repeated. She wrapped both arms around Orihime's waist and tugged the girl back up into a standing position. "Come on."

They broke into a jog.

"Oh, look!" Orihime shrieked suddenly, and grabbed Rukia's arm. Against the backdrop of chaos and fire, Chad was there, armed with nothing but his bare fists.

He was alone, magnificent in his quiet fury, beating back the rebels from the main house, even as they piled on him and struck him with their weapons. He was bleeding. Rukia could see the tears in his flesh. It was a wonder that he was still standing.

It was a terrible thing to see. He was like a great bear being attacked by an army of jackals, harassed and slowly brought down with vicious little bites.

"Oh, how terrible," gasped Orihime. Her voice cracked on a sob.

And then, suddenly, it was no longer a distant, meaningless battle that had nothing to do with her. Chad was her friend, her silent, infuriating, loyal friend. He had protected her. He had guarded her. Rukia felt the stirring of anger in her belly and felt her bruised hands clenching into fists.

"I have to go help him," she said. "You stay here, Orihime! I'm going to go help him!"

It was odd, really, how confident she sounded, even though she had no weapon and didn't dare use her kido in front of so many people.

"Give me a sword!" she shouted at the guards who ran past her, some running from the battle, some toward. "A sword! Someone give me a sword!"

No one listened to her and her voice was carried away on the rank wind.

"I'm… I'm coming with you!" gasped Orihime.

"What? Have you gone mad? Stay here!"

"I said I'm going with you!" said the pale, shaking girl, who had never wielded anything bigger than a dagger. She grabbed at Rukia's arm, pulling and keeling forward as Rukia tried to push her back.

"No, no you mustn't! Stay here! Stay here!"

In the midst of all the frenzy, they grappled like schoolchildren, two unarmed, frightened girls who couldn't bear to stay away from the danger even though they were sick with fear.

A horseman passed by, cursing and drawing blood from the stallion's side with merciless kicks. He was dark-haired and his voice was shrill. Rukia recognized him as Nnoitra Jiruga, riding as fast as he could away from the danger.

"Stop!" she shouted, waving her arms. "Hey! Stop! Take Orihime with you! Take her to safety, please!"

Jiruga spat down at her. "Out of the way, girl! I don't bother with whores."

She made a lunge for his foot, fully intending to pull him down if she had to. He kicked at her and caught her in the chin, but she clung to him like a hungry dog.

"If you won't take her with you then give me your sword! Don't leave us here defenseless!"

"You can die for all I care! Die and rot in hell!" he screamed at her.

He jerked suddenly and pitched forward. Rukia looked up and was struck with horror when she saw an arrow protruding from his left eye. It had gone straight through his head.

He crashed down on her and her vision was filled with his bloodless face, twisted into the ugly grimace of death. She buckled under his weight and fell, both hands planted on his chest as he slumped down. The arrow tip from his eye stopped just an inch from her own and she had to bite her lip to stop a scream of pure terror.

The brown stallion, flanks bleeding and sweating, reared up and shrieked with pain. It convulsed in the air, like a dancer twisting, and fell down in a dead, bleeding mass. When Rukia looked up, the lovely winter sky was dotted with the black points of arrows.

"Get down, Orihime!" she screamed, so loudly that her voice cracked. The redhead fell down beside her and they held each other, burrowing into the carcasses of Nnoitra Jiruga and his poor horse.

The deadly bolts impacted the sweaty corpses and the earth around them. They ricocheted off the saddle horn. Orihime cried out once and trembled, and Rukia knew she had been hit.

When the terrifying sounds of _whistle _and _thud _finally stopped, Rukia dared to look up. She dared to disentangle herself from Orihime's clenching hands and sit up, bit-by-bit, praying that she wouldn't get an arrow between the eyes.

With a hand buried in brown mane, Rukia pulled herself up. She saw them coming, the black-clad rebels with their crossbows. She heard their low laughter, and the mocking way they were approaching, and she was furious. She hated them in that moment, hated them for hurting Orihime.

"Oh, Kiyone," moaned Orihime. She was biting her knuckles. Tears were streaming down her face. An arrow had struck her slim calf and it lay limp and bleeding on the grass.

The enemy was approaching. Two of them had their crossbows out, but were deliberately hesitating to shoot, taunting the two girls with their helplessness, their inability to escape.

Rukia clenched her jaw and swore she would make them regret it. Her hands went to Jiruga's belt. She fumbled and found the hilt of his sword.

With her leg curled under her, she pushed herself up into a leaping lunge, simultaneously drawing the sword at an upwards slash. She tore the nearest man's chest open and he went down, flailing.

The other one fumbled with the trigger on his bow but she sprang at him and took out both his weapon and his right arm with a swing of the sword. It was heavy and unwieldy in her hands as she plunged it through the man's belly. Blood splashed her as she drew it out and she had to spit the bitter taste of it from her mouth.

"Orihime!" she gasped hoarsely, and ran to her fallen friend. Upon inspection, the arrow wound wasn't serious. Rukia could tell that it hadn't hit bone.

"You must stay here," she said. She tore a strip from the hem of her kimono and wrapped it across the streaming wound, criss-crossing it over the shaft of the arrow. "I'm going to help Chad. Stay here and stay down. Play dead if you have to. I'll come back for you and we'll get out of here."

Rukia took off at a run, heading for the main house. She was shocked to see the windows alight with fire. There were people running back and forth, carrying pails of water. There were guards banging on boarded-up doors, some trying to get in, some trying to get out.

"Chad!" she shouted. "Chad!"

He was still there, his body stretched out against the frame of the door. There was a pile of them, clinging to him. Rukia saw him struggle, saw him throw them off, but they came at him again. She wondered for a moment why he didn't try to run away, then she saw that he was blocking the doorway. He was creating a living shield, preventing any of the rebels from chasing the survivors. The space behind him was brimming with enemy bodies, all squirming to escape.

Rukia turned to see Orihime struggling to one knee. The girl had her hands in Jiruga's belt, tugging at the hilt of the long knife he carried. Her face was red with exertion, neck corded and straining. Orihime fell back on her rear when the knife finally came loose and Rukia saw her begin to saw at the shaft of the arrow.

"Don't!" Rukia cried out, realizing that she meant to get up and follow. "Stay there! Stay there!"

She clutched her sword in both hands. With a scream, Rukia ran forwards and slashed at the nearest man so that he fell back from Chad. Using the momentum, she spun around and buried the blade into the next one.

Her stolen sword glinted red with blood as she brought it up and down. Chad's fists swung and broke faces, crashed into stomachs and groins. He swung some of the men together so they hit each other, then tumbled towards Rukia's sword, dazed. It was almost too easy, and there was the terrible lingering thought in the back of her mind that these men were farmers, peasants, and tradesmen, inexperienced with battle. That they had been civilians, and now they were dying like so many cattle.

Soon, all the enemy before them were lying dead and Rukia dropped her sword from her aching arms. Elsewhere, the battle still raged. She could hear the roar of the fires. She could hear the shouts.

Chad was battered and bloodied, but steady on his feet.

"Thank you for your assistance," he said, "but I must go now. My apologies, Mistress. I know it is my duty to protect you, but my first loyalty is to Ichigo. I must go and rally to him. Please go and escape with the rest of them now."

With that, he turned and disappeared back into the smoky house, leaving Rukia standing rather numbly among the dead. She gasped and jumped when she felt a tug at her elbow.

Orihime had limped up, knife in hand. Her face was pale but she had a wild glint in her eyes. "Are we going to save our friends now?" she asked, as blandly as if she were asking for a cup of tea.

"What are you doing here?" cried Rukia. She winced at the sight of Orihime's leg, crudely bandaged with part of the shaft still sticking out. "Doesn't that hurt terribly?"

"Terribly," said Orihime. "But… I'm alright now, I think. I feel as if I can bear it." She smiled. It wasn't the sweet smile that Rukia was used to, but a fey, warlike one.

A long, silent look passed between them.

Rukia bent down and picked up the sword, gripping it tightly in both hands, tight enough for a killing blow. "Alright, then. We'll go together. You stay behind me."

Orihime replied with a simple nod, and both of them dashed in after Chad.

The inside of the house was swarming with people. The rebels were running about in all directions, aimlessly and out of control. The guards of the Red Maple were in a likewise chaos.

Rukia could hear women screaming. Ichigo's guests were either running as fast as they could towards the exits, or being cornered somewhere by the enemy. Piles of expensive cloth and furniture were thrown down stairs and upper landings, carried away as plunder. Doors were being forced open and people were dragged out, screaming and too terrified to defend themselves.

Orihime and Rukia ran through the kitchen and out into the hallway. Mahana, one of the kitchen maids, was on the floor, crawling away from a man who was dragging her back by the ankle. Her kimono was torn from the shoulder and her breast was exposed.

With a cry, Rukia leapt at him. She swung her sword but the narrow hallway prevented her from hitting the target. The man ducked and her blade sank into the paneled wood of the walls.

As she grunted and tried to yank it out, he drew his own weapon. Hot pain lanced across her arm and Rukia turned to stare disbelievingly at Orihime, who had jumped forward to attack the enemy but had cut Rukia instead.

"Damn it!" she ground out, and pulled her blade out so that she recoiled and slammed into the opposite wall.

"I'm sorry, I'm sorry!" whimpered Orihime, looking horrified.

"Sorry doesn't stop the bleeding!"

Rukia parried a blow from the man and knocked him across the room with a kick to the gut. She groaned and clutched at her bleeding arm. It would have been funny, if it had happened to anyone else.

"I'm sorry!" Orihime repeated, eyes wide with remorse.

"I'm fine," said Rukia. She flicked wood splinters off her sword. "Take care of Mahana, would you? I'm going ahead."

She ran the length of the hallway and out into an open foyer. She head the thud of many footsteps and the unmistakable bellow that was Ichigo's.

There he was, sword drawn high and rallying his men to him, commanding them with his sheer determination. Rukia felt like shouting. She felt like laughing.

He really was a sight to behold, all energy and heat and blood and lust.

He didn't have Zangetsu in his hands, but an ordinary katana. He wore no armor, but the black silk robes that clung to him like water.

The guards were listening to him. They had stopped running around in a blind panic. _He _was there, their leader, their young Warlord. They circled him and listened to his commands, shouted over the chaos of everything else.

Ichigo barked out his commands, sharp and accurate over the shouts and the wood breaking. The guards now spread out, organized at last, swarming up and down the landings with confidence. They moved in on the unfortunate, inexperienced rebels and cut them down ruthlessly.

Bit by bit, the enemies were either rounded up or killed. The screaming stopped. The plundering halted. _He_ stood there, in the midst of it all, commanding and strong, like a pillar of stone.

"Ichigo," Rukia called out, and ran across the room to him.

Startled, he whirled around and swung his sword at her. She yelped and brought up her blade to deflect the blow, which knocked her back a few paces. The clang of their swords made her ears ring, but he immediately leg go when he saw that it was her.

Weary, she dropped Jiruga's sword to the floor.

"Kiyone," he whispered, like he was drinking in the sound of her name. "It's you."

He reached up and touched her throat, her bruised face, ran his fingers through her disheveled hair.

"All that blood…"

She shook her head. "It's not mine."

He took her by the waist. He had that hungry, desperate, tired look in his eyes. He looked like he wanted to seize her up, press her to him, and kiss her. But he settled with lowering his forehead to hers.

"I'll come see you later," he whispered into her hair. "Oh, Kiyone. Be my enemy if you must, but I'm glad you're safe."

He released her and turned away. With a smile on her face, she watched him walk across the room and demand a status report from a battered-looking soldier. She adored him then, the line of his shoulders, the passion in his face. She wanted him.

A scream was torn from her throat when someone seized her from behind. Her arm was grabbed and bent back painfully. She didn't have time to reach her sword. She didn't have time to react.

A knife slid across her throat, drawing a shallow cut with it. It rested on her rapidly contracting windpipe. A deadly tickle.

Ichigo turned sharply at her scream. Everyone in the room turned to look at her.

"No one move," rasped the rebel who had taken her captive. "I will slit her throat." A small handful of his companions were behind him, weapons out and ready to fight. Slowly, they maneuvered themselves and Rukia over to the far wall, where the exit was.

Rukia could feel the cold winter air from the open doorway. Fear ate at her when she realized that they were going to drag her off, perhaps take her hostage. She couldn't speak. She barely dared to breathe.

Her captor backed himself into a wall and snapped at his companions to take what they could and escape.

"No one move," he repeated. "I will cut the bitch's throat if anyone so much as tries to stop us."

Rukia saw Ichigo move forwards, face dark with anger.

"No one will stop you," said the Warlord. "I promise it. Now, let her go."

The man holding her laughed shrilly, a desperate, chilling sound. Rukia could smell his sour breath, feel the frenzied throb of his heart.

"No. She comes with us."

He gave her arm a yank and she gasped, rising to her toes to take the pressure off her shoulder. She shot Ichigo a wordless, desperate look. The knife was cold against her throat. The man could have her dead in an instant. One move, and she would be flopping on the floor like a bleeding fish.

The man was short, even shorter than she was. No part of him was exposed for a dagger or an arrow. He hid himself completely behind her, using her body as a shield. It was with a cold sinking feeling that she realized there was no escape.

Ichigo was staring at her. He was frowning. From across the room, she saw his fingers tighten around the hilt of the katana. She thought his lips moved to form the words, "Forgive me."

He moved so fast that he became a blur. One second, she was staring across the room at him. The next, he appeared in front of her and her body convulsed with searing pain. She cried out sharply.

Uncomprehending, she looked down. Ichigo held the hilt of the blade that was buried in her, piercing her through. His sword had gone clean through her body and out her back, then into the body of the man behind her.

She barely heard the man shriek, barely felt his hand fall away from her throat. She stared down and saw her face reflected at an angle. It was her blood on the blade, on Ichigo's blade. It was his sword, his hard, cold steel that had impaled her, sunk so deeply in the fleshy curves of her.

She drew in a shuddering breath and swayed on her feet. She wouldn't, couldn't believe it: _she had been run through! _

She didn't know whether it was blood running down her legs or if she had wet herself. Her vision dimmed as she looked up at Ichigo. His face was strained.

"Wh… you…"

X

Sorry for the long gap between chapters. Thank you all for reading! Please review and let me know what you think!


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